


Forged in Fire

by chou_latte



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon Compliant through season 1 with a few twists, Canon-Typical Depiction of Wounds and Injuries, Canon-Typical Violence, Courting Rituals, Courtship, Creature Jaskier | Dandelion, Denial of Feelings, Draconic Courting Rituals, Dragon Jaskier | Dandelion, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eventual Smut, Fluff and Angst, Huddling For Warmth, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, M/M, Magic, Misunderstandings, Mix of witcher lore and DnD, Mutual Pining, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Pining Jaskier | Dandelion, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Romance, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Timeskips will be a thing here, Transformation, canonverse, then it diverges
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:22:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23140900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chou_latte/pseuds/chou_latte
Summary: “I love the way you just… sit in the corner and brood.”The stranger rolled his eyes. “I’m here to drink alone.”Then, just to make his point he fixed Jaskier with a glare. And oh,those eyes.They were golden like the warm glow of morning sunlight yet thrillingly fierce as they bore into his soul, but that wasn’t what caused Jaskier’s breath to catch. No, the man’s pupils were slitted, like adragon’s.___________________________________Or alternatively, what if Jaskier had been a red dragon all along? Cue draconic courting shenanigans, sprinkled with a heap full of misunderstandings and the usual dosage of pining.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 241
Kudos: 973





	1. Beginnings

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you guys enjoy this take on our favorite bard. I have quite a few things planned for this story and I'm incredibly excited to share them with you 💗
> 
> I fell deep down the rabbit hole that is Geraskier, and when I saw this inspiring [gifset](https://valdomarx.tumblr.com/post/190884613074/the-witcher-au-jaskier-as-a-red-dragontheir) I just couldn't help myself. The world needs more dragon!jaskier content! :D

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter serves as a bit of a prologue, just fyi :)

The soil was damp beneath his claws as he raced the looming shadows veiling his true form. Curled brown leaves were half-embedded in the earth, trampled by the occasional wolf or bear wandering these woods. He could hear the soft padding of a fox nearby, the sound soon followed by the rustling of small animals scurrying over thousands of brittle branches where soon new life would sprout.

Winter was coming to an end.

And with the change of season, a new chapter was beginning.

Wondrous excitement surged through Jaskier at the thought, his strong claws digging into the dirt with renewed fervour, steering him effortlessly through the maze of trees surrounding him. This was a forest of stubborn sentinel trees armoured in green needles, of mighty oaks, of pine trees as old as Jaskier himself - if not older. Thick black trunks rose from the ground, some clustering together, forming a barrier to anyone wishing to pass through. Yet this far North Jaskier knew them all.

He knew every single willow in this forest, knew where they stood tall and proud, knew where the little saplings had sprouted forth. He knew of their misshapen roots wrestled beneath the soil, of the gaps between them, where his long, slender body could slither through without damaging the gentle giants. This place was part of his home after all.

His scales glittered and glistened in the bright moonlight as he chased the brooding shadows of the trees, casting a crimson shimmer onto the bark of each trunk he passed. One old companion had fallen victim to the last snowstorm it seemed, the withering log stuck between two others, blocking his way forward. Jaskier huffed a small gust of steam through his snout, a hint of impatience in the air around him. He still had a long way to go and the faster he moved the better.

Urgency was his friend tonight.

Being spotted by humans or Hlal forbid, the Crinfrid Reavers while in his true form was far from what the red dragon desired. Too many of his kind had fallen prey to the savage hunt for their tears, for the distorted _glory_ that slaying a dragon brought to the narrow-minded humans.

The killings were vicious, barbarous even.

Jaskier shuddered at the mere memory of the bloody carcasses lying in the dirt, defeated and stripped down of their skin and scales, claws and teeth collected in gut-wrenching, neat little piles next to the corpses. Magnificent wings torn asunder, their bodies cut open, butchered like common sheep.

He felt sick remembering.

Some of them had been his friends, others family… and none had deserved such a fate.

In the 70 years Jaskier had been around, not a single dragon he’d known had acted in a way that had warranted such mindless brutality from the wicked creature that was mankind.

Quite contrary to popular belief, dragons were fairly peaceful creatures. Prideful, yes. Protective of what they held dear, but not violent or destructive in the way men liked to paint them. They were sentient beings after all, their lifespan much longer than that of a mere human; the bonds they forged much stronger.

It was unsurprising then, that most of his kin loathed the humans unanimously for their murderous deeds; wary of their ways, but Jaskier himself had learned to distinguish. Not all of them held malicious intent.

The dragon hunters he abhorred. He yearned to rain fire on them; to see them burn, screaming for their loved ones, for salvation that would only come in the form of Jaskier’s searing flames. He wanted to watch their expressions of horror turn into ash, the scent of burning flesh a warning for those contemplating taking up their swords and avenging their fallen ‘brethren’.

A few sparks left his nostrils at the thought. _If anyone had the right to avenge their fallen brothers then it was his kind._

And yet, Jaskier didn’t hate them all.

Curiosity had never been a trait he’d lacked, so it was much to his parents grievance that he’d met his fair share of humans over the years. At first they had been distraught by his foolish recklessness as they liked to call it. But as time went by, they had relented in their constant preaching. They still worried for him, prone to tell him what an unreasonable youngster he was, despite the fact that he’d outgrown them years ago.

The humans he’d met however had been far from the monsters he had previously encountered. They had been sweet, gentle souls; happy to teach the young, lost stranger about their culture and customs.

Naturally, he’d never revealed himself to them – too mistrusting and scared of their potential reactions or treasonous habits. Distrust had become a dragon’s second nature in these tumultuous times and as carefree as he usually acted, even Jaskier knew to tread lightly when it came to humans. His species’ ability to take on a human form was one of their most guarded secrets. One that could only be divulged to family, or a mate. Only a fool would reveal such a thing to mankind, and Jaskier was no fool.

Thanks to his various interactions with humans, however, he no longer feared and loathed them. Instead he had grown curiously interested in them. Their various customs once understood proved to be no less bizarre and peculiar than the dragons’ own.

They had sparked something within him. A boundless eagerness to learn, a thirst to see more; to explore, to watch and learn for himself. 

He was aware however, that what he intended to do now; what had him racing through their territory like an eager, new born fledgling, posed more than one risk.

Most of his kin had yelled at him for his ludicrous idea and had tried to dissuade him from his ‘suicidal plan’. There were so few of them left and what he’d intended to do was risky, yes. But Jaskier held the firm belief that hiding with their tail between their legs was no way to live either. The risk would pay off in the end.

His current life could certainly use a bit of buoyancy. Establishing his territory and dwelling had taken up some of his time, but there was only so much nesting a dragon could do without a mate. His nest was filled with pelts, coins and other trinkets he had amassed over the years. Sparkly little things littered the floor, silver and gemstones glittering oh so prettily when they caught the sunlight or danced in the hues of his flames.

Jaskier took enough pride in his nesting efforts to know that they would entice a potential partner, but despite his extended search and a multitude of courting offers, he’d never found the one.

No one had ever _felt right._

And after 30 years of moping around about it, whining how utterly unfulfilling his current life was, he’d finally found something to look forward to.

_He was going to live among the two-legged beasts._

The others had been livid when he’d told them.

Jaskier’s idea on how to spice things up had certainly not been what his father had had in mind. The yelling he’d expected, the outrage at his folly nothing new, but even he had been slightly worried for his parent’s dwelling when his father had started huffing out gusts of heat in his irritation.

Still, no amount of words, no amount of cunning wit from his mother had been enough to dissuade him - not when he’d set his mind on something.

So Jaskier had sat through his father’s tirade. Stoic and unmoved as the older dragon went on about how he should simply forget such madness; how he should find a mate instead and settle down like a _proper_ dragon his age would. 

And yet here he was, undeterred. Going through with this ‘dangerous notion’ despite the ruckus his parents had made.

He was going to live among humans.

The thought alone was enough to spur him on. His excitement felt palpable, the air around him crackling as he pushed his body harder, raced faster through the maze of trees until a glistening lake appeared ahead of him. The surface was as smooth and serene as he remembered it, an ebony fortress of tranquility protected by its silent guardians.

If Jaskier hadn’t been so pressed for time, he would have loved to take a dip in the water but given the position of the twinkling stars in the night sky, he had no time to spare. He intended to reach the Pontar before sunrise and the journey ahead was still long.

Despite the distance he’d put between himself and his dwelling, his goal was still leagues away. What would have taken him at most an hour to traverse by flying, was now taking him fourfold the time on foot. But carelessness could prove to be one’s undoing and Jaskier wasn’t planning on having any rumours of sightings of a red dragon tarnish his arrival at the human settlement. The monsters he could keep at bay, but humans? Humans could be more treacherous than a fellow draconid or even a coven of bruxas.

It had taken him a while to decide which human town he wanted to explore first. They all had their unique albeit strange charm after all. He’d gone through the potential options multiple times, knowing that the further south he ventured the farther he’d be from what was left of his family. But the larger towns meant a diminished likelihood of being discovered or questioned, and with that consideration in mind he had finally settled on a quaint town on the northern shore of the Pontar in Redania.

Oxenfurt.

Even the name of the settlement sounded full of adventure, and Jaskier could only hope that its denizens proved to be as interesting as the name suggested. He’d heard tales of the city, renowned for its Academy, a haven of artistry, knowledge and freethinkers.

Exactly what Jaskier wanted.

Pressing forward, he became a bit more cautious as he left the familiarity of his territory behind. His eyes darted around the dense forest more vigilantly now, scanning for any dangers lurking in the shadows. In the distance he could hear the soft flapping of feathery wings and the gentle gurgling of a creek to his right, but there was nothing else of note.

Tall mountains loomed to his left, the sight a familiar comfort as he glanced at them longingly. He’d chosen a route through the east of Kaedwen down to the Pontar to bypass Gelibol and Hengfors, keen on avoiding anything even remotely close to Crinfrid. There were no dragon hunters he knew of patrolling along this path south, but Jaskier had learned that word spread fast when it came to frightened humans, so he had resisted the urge to fly. With the moon almost full, his true form attracted too much attention. The sky above him was crystal clear - not a single cloud in sight to give him cover, so Jaskier had reluctantly tucked his wings back in.

The forests were safer. Not for humans, no. But he cared little for the wandering monster here and there. A huff of fire and they usually retreated, knowing better than to ire a full-grown dragon.

His pace barely changed over the course of the next few hours.

Stopping only to drink some water when he reached the Pontar, Jaskier placed a precautionary glamor on himself and got some rest in a nearby cave. His magic was limited and took a toll out of him, but he decided that he’d rather be safe during daylight hours than come to regret it later.

The forests proved to be cover enough for the second leg of his journey though, and Jaskier managed to reach the outskirts of the city on his third day of travelling, just when the sun was about to cast her first rays upon the land.

The water surrounding the city glistened as it was bathed in the warm morning light, beckoning him forward with a merry twinkle of a promise.

And what a sight it was. He’d chosen well.

Shrouded in the last remnants of darkness Jaskier took a deep breath and tried to calm his jittery thoughts. Letting out huff of steam, he closed his eyes and allowed the ancient magic to flow freely through his veins. His form shimmered, scales blurring as the air around him sparked with tendrils of magic.

Then he started to shift. His giant four legs shrunk to familiar human arms and legs, his scales merging together and losing their scarlet sheer in favor of unblemished expanses of porcelain. His long, winding tail and leathery wings disappeared into non-existence as his organs rearranged themselves within his new body.

It had taken a while to master the transformation, and it was certainly far from pleasant but after years of practicing the pain was naught but a dull echo reverberating through his body.

When Jaskier finally opened his unchanged, blue eyes, he was standing on two instead of four legs. Blinking a few times, he slowly adjusted to his diminished senses. His eyesight and hearing were still far superior to that of a human, but they left much to be desired with compared to his draconic body. 

Brown hair adorned his human head, a tint of red shimmering through whenever the light hit it just so, the only feature remotely reminiscent of his beautiful shimmering scales. Clawless finger pads traced over newly formed human flesh. Firm muscles lay dormant beneath the soft and unprotected skin and Jaskier took a moment to reacquaint himself with his human body. It had certainly been a while.

A giddy laugh escaped him as he twirled on the spot, his embroidered cloak flaring up around him from the sudden movement. The cloak had been a gift, as had been the colorful outfit he wore underneath. The light blue doublet and high-waisted pants brought out his eyes, he’d been told – and he’d been fond of the garments ever since. It was a perhaps not the simplest of outfit, but Jaskier treasured it nonetheless.

The heavy fabric slowly settled back into place behind him as Jaskier stood in the clearing, smiling like an idiot.

His ancestors had certainly been thorough in their efforts to keep their race protected. At first, he had been confused when the clothes he had donned as a human had reappeared upon the arduous transformation back and forth, but one close encounter with the hunters had been enough to make him see the reasoning behind it. Pretending to be one of their kin was certainly more convincing when one wasn’t stark-naked.

Refusing to dwell on such negative memories, he shook his head and started walking towards the town; childish giddiness surging through him as he neared the bridge connecting the two landmasses.

He couldn’t wait to see what would await him inside.

There were more buildings than he remembered on his last flight over the town; the humans had been busy expanding it seemed. Watchtowers had been constructed at the two entry points and the defensive wall had been overhauled, made sturdier with new layers of bricks, thick enough now that multiple guards could stand on top of it if need be.

Bright blue eyes glanced over to the entrance gate where a figure, presumably one of the guards, had nodded off. Waking the poor soul seemed like a cruel deed, so Jaskier simply slipped past him into the sleepy town.

Excitement surged through him at the thought of all the adventures and thrilling new experiences that awaited him here. So many things to see. So much to learn.

Would these humans be different from the ones he had already met? Would they be the same? How would they react to him? Would they welcome him into their midst?

Ah, this was truly exhilarating. He simply couldn’t wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys didn't mind the bits of lore and the background of Jaskier's draconic upbringing. They'll be relevant later on :D There will be a timeskip in between here and the second chapter but I wanted to start it all off with how Jaskier came to mingle among humans.


	2. Posada

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully a little something to cheer up the dreadful quarantine life. I hope you're all safe and sound out there 💗💗

The road ahead of him stretched onwards, hugging the land and guiding him forward through greened valleys and cragged hills, the rolling verdant hues flowing into somber grey as the terrain became more mountainous the farther east Jaskier travelled. The current to his left had grown more subdued, the rivers flowing from the eastern mountains carrying less snowmelt now that spring had slowly come to an end.

He had been on this path for the past two months with nothing but his trusted lute on his back and his own two feet carrying him wherever he so pleased to go. He enjoyed it. Travelling at his own leisure, exploring the world, singing and performing along the way for any audience he could find.

He was a troubadour. A poet. A story-teller.

And oh, that certainly hadn’t been the first profession Jaskier had had in mind as he’d entered the city of Oxenfurt all those years ago. The possibilities had seemed endless back then, daunting really, and it hadn’t been until his thirst for knowledge had driven him towards the academy, seeking out the knowledge locked behind stone walls that he’d discovered his undying love for music and poetry.

Studying the seven liberal arts had been the logical conclusion after that, as had been picking up any instrument he could find. His fingers were nimble in this form, and unhindered by fearsome claws Jaskier had been utterly enthralled by the things he could do with them. The gentle sounds his fingertips could lure forward, the soft melodies strung forth to accompany his voice, the two of them so clearly meant for one another that he couldn’t help but want to perform as often as he was given the opportunity to. 

His voice was a gift. A gift he’d taken full advantage of once it had been granted to him.

The first time he’d heard himself speak he’d been utterly elated. He’d talked, hummed, and chattered endlessly with anyone willing to lend him an ear, just to feel the thrumming vibration at the back of his throat, to hear the tenor of his voice echoing through the air.

The sheer delight in the vocal capabilities of his human form hadn’t diminished once he’d set foot into Oxenfurt. On the contrary, it had only grown. Under the careful tutelage of his professors Jaskier had honed his abilities, had tuned and fine-tuned his singing like he’d learned to do for the strings of his precious lute.

He’d _relished_ in what he’d lacked as a dragon.

Not only was he able to sing in this form, no, he was able to weave tales of old into riveting ballads of heroics and destiny, to compose ditties and poems that brought joy and laughter to others. And how different that was to anything he was used to.

Most of his kind communicated mentally, a gentle brush of one mind against another. There was no speaking per se, no vocal exclamation, just a silent exchange of words or sentiments.

Of course there was a certain familiarity, a certain intimacy that came with a mental connection, but it also meant having to learn early on how to shield your innermost thoughts against the open vulnerability such a form of communication entailed. It was similar to what sorceresses were capable of, if the tomes of the Oxenfurt library were to be believed, though Jaskier liked to think that their version was a little less intrusive.

It had come as no surprise then that being able to express himself openly without such an oftentimes onerous mental connection had felt utterly liberating.

So, Jaskier had sung. He’d sung and composed and had only ever felt freer up in the sky with the air rushing beneath his wings.

He’d soon discovered, however, that those weren’t the only delights his human form could bring. If there was one thing he’d learned as the seasons passed by, then it was that mankind was terribly creative when it came to the various pleasures they sought out.

The finer things, as some liked to call them.

The scalding bathhouses Jaskier had taken a liking to almost embarrassingly swiftly. What could he say? He was a red dragon, a being of fire. Heat and steam were second nature to him, and there was something to be said about emerging from a bath fresh and clean, muscles lax and mind at ease.

Then there were the scents of course, soft and subtle oils and perfumes. A delight one of his artistically inclined compatriots had introduced him to. And Jaskier had taken to them like a youngling to the air. 

He’d come to prefer the warm, earthy scents of sandalwood or cedar. They eased his longing for home, and mixed with a hint of freshness, a zesty tang of orange blossoms or the citrusy spice of bergamot oil, the woody fragrance took on an entirely different middle note. 

The evocative scent had become a staple in his routine. Though at times, Jaskier still enjoyed wearing something a bit more floral, especially when the occasion called for it. The soft, sweet notes of lavender would linger in the air around him then as he danced and twirled around the company of noble- born men and women.

And oh, the wine he’d drunk on those more festive gatherings. He remembered the first time he’d tasted Touissant red vividly. The taste. The scent. It had lingered in his throat. An explosion of flavors unlike any he had encountered before. He’d been infinitely grateful to have had a few drunken experiences prior to that night. Otherwise he might have made an utter fool of himself by consuming way too much of the exquisite beverage.

He’d learned that lesson the hard way after that first time he’d gotten piss-poor drunk and had nearly vomited on the poor lad that had graciously helped him back to his room. If he’d known how susceptible his human form was to outside influences he wouldn’t have let himself be coaxed into drinking more ale than he could stomach.

The terrible queasiness and the splitting headache he’d woken up to the next morning hadn’t deterred him from enjoying a bottle of Touissant red here and there, though. And soon he’d figured that wine tasted even sweeter when consumed with the right company.

A smile flitted across his face at the thought.

The pleasures of the flesh hadn’t exactly been something Jaskier had concerned himself with for most of his life. As a dragon he’d never found a mate, and his species seemed far more cantankerous when it came to sharing intimacy than mankind seemed to be.

While the concept of mates existed for humans as well, the majority of them seemed far less concerned with the notion of finding the ‘one’ than dragons were. And Jaskier couldn’t help but rejoice at being able to love so liberally. There was no pressure of having to find someone to share and build a life with, no judgment for enjoying the company of more than one person. No, here he was allowed to love freely; could bed any lass or lad that crossed his path or caught his fancy.

It helped that his poetry and silver tongue got him in between the thighs of most of his intended conquests, and served him just as well in escaping the perilous situations some of those midnight tumbles occasionally entailed. Then again, it wasn’t his fault that the humans never told him they were mated! He’d never intentionally go for someone taken. Even he had standards, thank you very much.

But more than anything he’d simply enjoyed his time in Oxenfurt. He’d enjoyed the finer arts, the incredibly talented compatriots he was surrounded with, the music, the poetry, the endless array of books lining the walls of the academy’s library. And after four years of making a name for himself he’d even been offered a position as a professor. He’d been honoured, thrilled really, to teach the younglings himself. He’d loved it. At least he had for a while.

Before the wanderlust had tugged at him again.

The seasons had come and gone. Five times to be exact since he’d donned his human skin, but no matter how enjoyable teaching at the academy was, Jaskier still yearned to see the world.

He’d read so much about the vast continent they inhabited, and yet he’d seen so little. Even as a dragon he hadn’t had much of a chance to explore the lands beyond a certain reach of their territory. It was simply too dangerous in his true form.

And so, when the first primroses had sprouted forth, a delightful fleck of colour in the otherwise still dreadfully dreary landscape, he’d finally decided that it was time.

With an excited spring in his step he’d started packing.

Not many of his amassed possessions were deemed useful for the journey ahead, so they were left behind. And with nothing but a small pouch dangling from his belt and his lute strapped to his back, Jaskier had set out of the city at dawn, throwing one last glance over his shoulder at the place that had been his home for the past five years.

And now here he was.

Somewhere east of Ban Gléan, following the steady flow of the Dyfne to the edge of the mountains of Gory Sine.

He’d trailed along the Pontar to where the rivers merged and on a whim had decided to venture further east, his heart longing for the familiar terrain of the mountain range on the horizon.

Shaking his head at the whimsical thoughts his instincts had conjured, he lowered his gaze back down to the path in front of him. 

The road ahead was slowly becoming more encased by jagged hillsides and rocky outcrops, looming tall to both sides. The pebbled ground that made up the path hadn’t exactly been narrow to begin with, wide enough for two riders to easily pass one another, perhaps even wide enough for a cart or a wagon, but now that it was becoming broader, a clear sign of a settlement nearby, Jaskier’s steps quickened.

It had been a few days since he’d passed through Ban Gléan; and while he had come to realize that not every audience appreciated his talents as much as Oxenfurt did, the adoration for his artistry sometimes expressed in a fond gesture of food being thrown at him, Jaskier remained undeterred.

After all, the town he now spied in the distance looked like a promising sight. Perhaps some heroic ballads or joyous ditties would be a welcome distraction from the dreadful mountain life these poor souls must lead.

If his cartographical knowledge wasn’t failing him then this quaint little village built into the mountainside must be upper Posada.

He’d never quite seen structures like these. Overhanging bridges and flights of stairs connected the houses built into the isles of land. The dwellings were sturdy, built with brick and clay and lay nestled into the rocky spires as if they had risen from the ground alongside them.

By the time he was done admiring the sight, Jaskier had reached the outer edge of the village and taken a tentative step forward onto the wooden bridge that lead to one of the larger buildings - what he hoped to be the inn.

The bridge creaked under his weight and started swaying slightly from left to right, the rocky sensation enough to make him halt briefly, mid-step. A mischievous smile spread over his face and he added more weight to his next step, causing the bridge to sway just a tiny bit more. He couldn’t help but laugh at the feeling. It felt a bit like gliding through air, allowing the winds to tug you in one direction, then the other. And oh, how he missed _that_.

Like a giddy youngling he started leaning into each step he took, chasing the sensation and making the bridge sway more and more. His laughter echoed through the ravine, rippling through the air and only adding to his joyous mood.

These villagers were in for a treat.

Much to his luck the first building he ventured in actually proved to be the both the tavern and the inn all in one. A bit less fortunate however, was the innkeeper manning the counter. Instead of being greeted by a comely young barmaid as he’d hoped, Jaskier was faced with a stern-looking, bald older gentleman. Alas, one couldn’t have everything.

Undeterred by the others stoic demeanour, he sauntered over and started haggling for a night or two of lodging. Oxenfurt’s newest tales, not to mention his singing would bring the man good coin and Jaskier could certainly rouse a crowd. He enjoyed doing so, and all he humbly asked for in return was a warm bed and food in his belly.

And yet the innkeeper eyed him warily, ever so distrusting.

Jaskier let out a soft sigh.

“How about this then, good sir. I shall only collect once the deed is done, the crowd merry and the ale flowing. Deal?”

“Fine,” the man grunted, “go on then, lad.”

He gave the man one of his most winning smiles and turned around to let his gaze flicker over the crowd. All of the patrons seemed to be common folk: farmers, workers or simply normal villagers that just wanted to enjoy a drink after a hard day in the fields.

Knowing that, Jaskier mentally altered his repertoire accordingly. There was little to no point in singing about things his audience would find no joy in.

Settling in a chair near the fireplace, he started tuning his lute, adjusting it to the acoustics of his new environment. A few eyes glanced up upon the first soft strumming of calloused fingertips against the strings, but otherwise the people seemed to care fairly little.

He started singing then, a softer melody at first to warm up his voice. It was a gentle song, the lyrics nothing too profound, a simple tune about a farmer’s daughter picking and naming flowers in a meadow.

No reaction.

Tough crowd, eh. Well then.

He tried to go for a livelier, more uplifting song next. A heroic tale of a monster slain, a village saved from certain doom. That would surely get them going.

He sang and sang, voice lilting just so when he’d reached the finale, but even when he finished the song with a flourish, he got hardly any response at all.

Jaskier frowned.

A more heartfelt ballad perhaps?

No, nothing after that either…

Did these villagers have no appreciation for music whatsoever?

He went for another ditty, a more rowdy one this time, the lyrics almost crass, and that finally earned him a reaction, albeit not the one he wanted.

His sensitive ears picked up the muttered ‘shut up!’ easily, and Jaskier’s mood fell. Truly? That was all they had to say? He’d given them variety, hadn’t even sung of anything over complicated or too elaborate for such a crowd, and that was the response he’d got?

As more muttered expletives trickled in from his right, he slowly resigned himself to his fate.

Well, if they wanted something to boo, he’d give them something to boo.

_You think you’re safe without a care  
But here in Posada, you’d be wise to beware_

He got up from his perch next to the fire and gave a slow, dramatic bow forward to accompany his last line. It was sung in a low vibrato, his fingers dancing over the strings as his strumming intensified.

_The pike with the spike that lurks in your drawers  
Or the flying drake that will fill you with horror_

Of course the villagers looked none the more impressed, not like he’d expected them to. Still, he kept going, a stage-worthy smile plastered on his face as he started walking around the tavern in a last feeble attempt to engage his lousy audience.

Another ‘shut the fuck up’ was thrown at him from the first man who’d cussed him out, but instead of faltering Jaskier merely walked over to him and tauntingly threw his left leg up on a footstool nearby, singing all the louder.

Might as well give them what they want.

The next rhyme came to him then, and it was frankly one of his worst impromptu creations, and yet it fit the dreadful crowd he had to perform for like a glove. He smiled as he let the words fall over his lips.

 _Need old Nan the hag to stir up a potion  
So that your lady might get an abortion_  
 _  
_“Abort yourself!”

All of a sudden, bread and various other consumables were thrown at him, and Jaskier had to hold up his hands to shield himself from the vicious barrage.

“O-! Oi! Sto- Fuck off!”

“Shut up!”

“I’m so glad that I could just bring you all together like this. Unbelievable.”

He took a few steps back, retreating to the window to gently place his precious lute on the windowsill, keeping her safe from any further goods being hurled at him.

What an ungrateful bunch. One could think he’d yowled instead of sung.

Muttering to himself, Jaskier knelt down to pick up the bread that had been thrown at him. At least he didn’t have to go hungry tonight. A small blessing.

He glanced up to throw another glare at the oaf who was _still_ complaining about his singing when his gaze landed on the hulk of a man sitting in the far corner of the inn.

That one hadn’t said or done anything, hadn’t cussed him out or thrown food at him and if that wasn’t enough to intrigue Jaskier then the white hair and sharp features certainly were.

He slowly got up and started walking over; ignoring the outraged reaction he got from the barmaid as he grabbed a tankard of ale from her plate.

His eyes were fixed on the intriguing specimen in the darkened corner. White hair wasn’t exactly a common feature for such a youthful face and while the man certainly seemed intimidating, that had never deterred Jaskier before. 

He leaned up against the pillar next to the table, and casually addressed the man.

“I love the way you just… sit in the corner and brood.”

The stranger rolled his eyes. “I’m here to drink alone.”

Then, just to make his point he fixed Jaskier with a glare. And oh, _those eyes_.

They were golden like the warm glow of morning sunlight yet thrillingly fierce as they bore into his soul, but that wasn’t what caused Jaskier’s breath to catch. No, the man’s pupils were slitted, like a _dragon’s_. 

“Good, yeah, good,” he mumbled as he tried to find his bearing, pointedly ignoring the way his instincts surged forward at the sight.

“No one else hesitated to comment on the quality of my performance, except…” he put his drink in one hand, and gestured with his other towards the man, “for you.”

He was met with silence.

“Come ooon,” he urged, smiling.

“You don’t want to keep a man with…” he hesitated, scouring his brain for a flirtatious wording but coming up empty, “bread in his pants waiting.”

Oh, that was atrocious.

“You must have some review for me,” he pressed and sat down on the bench across from the stranger, still smiling. “Three words or less.”

The man merely levelled him with a deadpan expression. “They don’t exist.”

“What don’t exist?” he drawled and leaned forward, curious for the answer.

“The creatures in your song.”

“And how would you know?”

The man just kept staring at him. Those golden hues locked onto his form.

Jaskier had to suppress an elated shiver that threatened to run down his spine at the sensation, and that’s when he finally noticed the swords. Twin swords to the man’s side, a medallion around his neck and double ‘oh’. A witcher.

He’d heard of them. Mutants as the humans liked to call them. A rather ungrateful title if one asked him, especially given that they killed the monsters pestering mankind. 

But that wasn’t what intrigued Jaskier about them, oh no. It was much more that they apparently refused to kill dragons.

Not much had been written about witchers per se or how they came into existence. Only that they underwent horrible mutations, trials of sorts. The tomes in the Oxenfurt library didn’t elaborate further, so Jaskier hadn’t learned much about them over the years. But the little bits and pieces he had encountered, especially the ones about their moral code, had been enough to get him curious.

He’d never met a one, of course. Didn’t know whether those rumours were true or not, and yet here he stood. A dragon in disguise in front of a witcher; unaware whether the other could tell what he was or not.

A shiver ran down his spine at the sheer recklessness of his actions, but he wouldn’t take them back even if he could. The witcher hadn’t done anything so far other than grunt at him, so Jaskier relaxed slightly. Perhaps he couldn’t tell. Their magic was old and not based on chaos like the one sorceresses wielded. Theirs was bound to nature, to the elements so to speak. Besides, they had guarded their secret for centuries, so it truly wouldn’t surprise him if the witchers weren’t aware of their ability to take on a human form either.

A bit more at ease now, Jaskier let his curiosity get the better of him. He leaned back and folded his hands in front of him, tapping one lightly against the table in a surge of excitement.

“Ooh, fun,” Jaskier said, the tip of his tongue flicking out to wet his lips.

“White hair. Big old loner. Two very,“ he paused for dramatic effect, “ _very_ scary looking swords. I know who you are.”

The witcher had gotten up in the meantime, seemingly done with this conversation; not even sparing him a second glance as he grabbed the purse lying on the table.

Jaskier took a deep breath as the man walked past him, and then within a split second he decided to fuck it all and got up after him. 

“You’re the witcher, Geralt of Rivia.”

He’d heard of him. Not exactly the nicest things, but as his father liked to say, he lacked any form of self-preservation, so how could chasing after this one be any worse?

The witcher just kept on walking; utterly ignoring him and Jaskier couldn’t help but smile at this new development.

“Called it,” he yelled after the hulk of a man and hurried over to the windowsill where he’d left his lute.

Oh, this would be fun.

Curiosity had been a constant companion at his side, and seeing the witcher’s lack of response to his human guise only served to intensify his interest in the man. Even if he hadn’t realized what Jaskier was, he still wanted to know why they refused to kill his kind. Everyone else seemed to fear dragons, to loathe them, to want them dead. So how come witchers didn’t? Weren’t they supposed to kill monsters at mankind’s bidding?

That of course certainly wasn’t the only thing that intrigued him about the white wolf. The thrill of adventure hung heavy in the air, the thread of untold stories waiting to be spun into epic poems dangling in front of him. And what battles he would be able to witness. Spectacles he couldn’t even dream of unless he tagged along with the witcher. 

His choice was made then.

Just then his ears picked up what sounded like haggling in the distance; the witcher most likely accepting a job. Excitement surged through him at the prospect. That would certainly be more interesting than getting bombarded with bread by this boorish lot.

Humming a small tune to himself, Jaskier grabbed his lute and hurried out of the tavern and after the man.

He was more than ready for an adventure. 

***

And what an adventure it had been.

They had been attacked, bound, beaten and threatened to be robbed of their lives all in the span of a few hours.

Jaskier hadn’t exactly appreciated the beating. Nor the destruction of his lute. The rest though, had been jarringly enlightening.

“Credit where credit is due. That whole reverse psychology thing you did on them was _brilliant_ , by the way. _Kill me, I’m ready_.”

He’d lowered his voice to a deep baritone for the last bit, giving his best impression of the witcher, smiling to himself while doing so.

Geralt on the other hand didn’t seem to appreciate his efforts, merely turning around to throw him a long, hard glare, which Jaskier of course completely ignored. The witcher was more bark than bite as he’d learned over the past few hours.

“That’s the conclusion. They just let us go, and you give all of Nettly’s coin to the elves.”

“Filavandrel’s lute not gift enough for you?”

He grabbed his new lute, a true beauty if you asked him, and pulled her slightly forward. A smile flitted over his face as he glanced down at his newest possession.

“Yeah, she’s a bit sexy, isn’t she?”

His smile quickly faded into a more contemplative frown, the weight of what he’d just witnessed slowly settling in.

“I do have respect for Filavandrel. He survived a great cleansing once, you know this. Maybe he can do it again. Be reborn.”

Much like his own kind was trying to do.

He’d been quiet at first once they had been freed. After witnessing and hearing how the human records he had studied at Oxenfurt had been so utterly false, so completely fabricated to suit their own needs, he had to rethink the image he’d built of the human race over the past five years.

He shouldn’t have been surprised. Truly. Not from what he’d witnessed from some of them before; the hunters in particular.

He’d felt for the elves; felt guilty for insulting them instead of listening first. To be fair they _had_ beaten him, had broken his precious lute even. Still, the tears had welled up unbidden when he’d learned the truth from Filavandrel.

Jaskier knew the feeling of having to dig up graves for loved ones, so unfairly torn from their side, all too well. He should have known better.

_Will the elf-king heed what the witcher entreats  
Is history a weave doomed to repeat?_

“Nah, this is shit,” he said, frowning.

He _would_ know better from now on.

His years in Oxenfurt had made him forget some of mankind’s horrible deeds but the elves had reminded him. And Geralt. Geralt had known. Had most likely experienced the injustice first-hand as well.

His words had resonated with Jaskier.

**_“Show the humans that you’re more than what they fear you to be.”_ **

Jaskier wished it was that easy. There was not much his kind could do. Show themselves and be mistaken for a mindless draconid and hunted down. For the sakes of the elves he hoped that they would fare better than his kind did.

Nonetheless, the encounter had also shown him a different side of the witcher. Despite his gruff demeanour Geralt had shown the elves kindness. He’d shown them a different path. One that wasn’t bathed in blood and destruction. He’d given them a choice, and that hadn’t gone unnoticed by Jaskier.

It only intrigued him more. Geralt had chosen not to kill another sentient being. He’d chosen to spare the Sylvan, and that only made his instincts trust the man more. In addition, it seemed that both witchers and dragons were faced with a rather unfavourable reputation, and if Jaskier couldn’t change their own then he’d be damned not to try and help change the witcher’s. If he could help at least one of them then he was in.

“This is where we part ways, bard, for good.”

The words brought him out of his small reverie. Jaskier looked up and frowned. There was only one path going forward.

“I promised to change the public’s tune about you. At least allow me to try,” and with that he grabbed his newly acquired lute and started strumming.

He wasn’t _that_ easy to get rid of, especially once he’d set his mind on something. And he planned on sticking around. There was more to the witcher than what he’d seen and he had a feeling that he’d merely scraped the surface of what Geralt of Rivia was truly made of.

A tune came to him then, and Jaskier started singing.

After all, his questions hadn’t exactly been answered as of yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaand the boys meet :D 
> 
> A fair note, I will be using some canon-dialogue here and there if I'm depicting a scene from the TV show but that will only happen sporadically ;) 
> 
> I do hope you guys enjoyed the chapter. If you did, let me hear your comments and thoughts down below 💗


	3. Trust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. So, since I'm really excited for this chapter, you'll be getting it early :D Enjoyy~~

Jaskier sat on his bedroll near their campfire, leaning against one of the tall oak trees surrounding the little clearing they’d found, strumming his lute idly. Once in a while he stopped to throw more kindling into the flickering flames, intent on keeping the fire alive. The days were slowly getting shorter, and Jaskier preferred some semblance of warmth at night. They were currently stuck deep in the thicket of a forest east of Maribor, hot on the trail of the most recent hunt Geralt had accepted, with no inn in sight for miles.

He glanced over at Roach who was content to graze on a patch of grass at the other side of the clearing. Her ears flicked forward when he took up his strumming again, but other than that she ignored him. So alike her owner, Jaskier mused.

Geralt, of course, had already vanished into the trees; wandering off to deal with the creature they had been following for the past few days. A werewolf. And a particularly nasty specimen to boot, if one were to judge based on the finality with which Geralt had told him off when he’d badgered to tag along.

Not like _that_ was anything new.

Yet so many things had changed since they’d started travelling together.

They had been on the path for three months now and Jaskier couldn’t help but smile fondly when he remembered how reluctant Geralt had been to have him around at first. Oh, how the fearsome witcher had snarled and snapped; how he’d frowned and rolled his eyes at Jaskier’s antics.

The exasperation had been ever present - particularly during those first few days as they’d left Posada. His constant stream of noise, the talking, the humming, the singing even, had been a perpetual irritant to the taciturn witcher so accustomed to quiet solitude. Yet, not once had Geralt tried to get rid of him. He could have. Instead, he’d allowed Jaskier to trail along, had even slowed down Roach’s gait whenever Jaskier had stopped to admire some wondrous sight along their way.

Despite all the grunts and rough demeanour, Geralt had slowly grown used to his presence. Perhaps he’d started to appreciate it even. Some tasks such as setting up camp or starting the fire were left to him now, Geralt usually busying himself with hunting their dinner. And while Geralt still rolled his eyes at his lyrics, Jaskier caught the slight upward twitch of his mouth every so often.

Besides, by now he’d amassed quite the proficiency in translating the monosyllabic grunts and hums Geralt usually replied with, not to mention reading the subtle changes in his stony expression. It wasn’t so difficult once you got used to it. The man was far more expressive than he led on.

He’d also learned that sometimes it was best to relent in order to fight the battles worth winning. Tonight had been one of those times, where relenting had seemed like the more prudent course of action.

Of course Jaskier had itched to see this fight. It wasn’t every day that the white wolf would face off against a werewolf. He’d been trying to wane Geralt down ever since he had agreed to accept the contract, had argued and argued, but Geralt, the oaf, had kept refusing.

This hadn’t been his first time he’d tried to talk Geralt into letting him tag along, not by far. The first few times he’d tried to do so he’d been met with stern ‘no’s’. No surprise there. The witcher had already been exasperated by his constant babbling and singing, so bartering the man into taking him into the midst of danger hadn’t exactly gone well for Jaskier.

Naturally he’d done the only reasonable thing given his options: He’d snuck after the witcher to see the fight anyway.

Now _that_ hadn’t worked out in his favor. He’d hardly ever seen Geralt so angry. He had to sit through an angry tirade and quite a bit of outraged glares as Geralt took care of the scratch on his arm. The words had been sharp. How he’d been nothing but a distraction – and yes, truly, Geralt _did_ have to save him from that sneaky wraith, but he hadn’t known there were two of them! So, who could really blame him? And yet the sword-calloused fingertips on his arm had been incredibly gentle as they’d applied a healing salve to the wound, a stark contrast to the words that had washed over his head.

Jaskier had taken it in stride, though.

It certainly hadn’t been the only time he hadn’t listened. Geralt had huffed and glared, but in the end he still protected him, had even taken to immediately walk over to check up on him once the monster had been slain. And Jaskier’s poor instincts had taken that as more than mere protectiveness. Geralt didn’t want him to get hurt. In some form or way he actually _cared_ about him.

He hummed at the thought.

Geralt cared. He truly did.

Despite the utterly ridiculous notion of witcher’s not having feelings, Jaskier had learned early on that Geralt cared almost _too much_. The man had refused coin from struggling families, had spared sentient creatures otherwise so easily labelled as monsters, and had accepted a contract from a little girl in exchange for a heap full of flowers, for goodness sake.

Geralt was a good man, kind.

So Jaskier had begrudgingly stayed put more often than he would’ve liked.

Of course, he had still grumbled about not getting any new inspiration for his songs. If Geralt didn’t allow him to actually _see_ what transpired, then how was he to turn the witcher’s reputation into something more favourable?

Geralt had merely grunted at that, grabbed a few potions out of Roach’s saddlebags and stalked off into the woods.

Jaskier had let out a soft huff as he’d watched Geralt’s retreating form.

He hated the waiting. The sitting around idly, waiting and worrying whether Geralt would come back in one piece – or come back at all.

So he usually busied himself with composing.

The bright colours of late dusk were slowly fading away into stark blackness as Jaskier tried to work on his most recent ballad. Glancing up at the stars he tried to find some semblance of inspiration, but tonight proved to be one of those nights.

Instead, he tossed another log into the flames, remembering Geralt’s precaution about keeping the fire burning. Apparently, werewolves were weak against it.

Jaskier watched as sparks flew high into the night sky, the wood cracking as the flames took to the new offering, engulfing the log in their heated embrace like an old, long-lost lover.

The fire was a small comfort in the darkened night. It was a soothing, all too familiar sight. And yet Jaskier couldn’t help but stare wistfully at the flames. They held nothing in comparison to the ones he was able to produce in his true form. Those flickered bright and high, a burning heat, all encompassing, vivid and oh so full of life.

His head perked up at the sudden sound of howling in the distance.

The fight must have begun then.

Jaskier sighed.

Yes, he most definitely hated the waiting.

He tried to distract himself by remembering what else could help Geralt in his battle other than Igni. Fire wasn’t the only weakness werewolves had. Cursed oil and two bombs, whose names Jaskier just couldn’t remember for the love of him, worked in a witcher’s favour as well.

What was it again? Moonball?

No that wasn’t it. Dustball?

Now he was just making shit up.

Truth be told, he’d actually been quite surprised about the bombs. He hadn’t expected that particular weapon in a witcher’s arsenal. They were used far more often than Jaskier had expected - especially to get rid of monster nests, as he’d learned. Unfortunately, they didn’t have all the ingredients for the Dustball (?) bombs, but they had what they needed for the oil.

Dog tallow and wolfsbane were luckily quite common alchemy ingredients, the later another substance werewolves weren’t particularly fond off.

He’d handed the plants over to Geralt and hadn’t been able to take his eyes off him when he’d had started preparing the oil. There was a refined grace to the way Geralt handled the herbs, strong hands impossibly cautious when the need called for it. Jaskier kept quiet during moments like those, unwilling to disturb the delicate mood.

His initial assessment of the man had proven quite true, dare he say. He still hadn’t been able to bring up the topics of dragons, not wanting to raise any suspicion, but the bits he’d heard about the witcher’s moral code seemed to have been based on fact. At least they were in Geralt’s case.

Travelling with a witcher had also led to an acquisition of knowledge he never would have dreamed of possessing otherwise. He’d learned quite a bit about monsters these past few moons. They hadn’t covered all of them, but the ones they _had_ encountered Jaskier knew the weaknesses of, as he did which various bits were best set aside for harvesting.

The potions and decoctions Geralt used had quite the array of monster parts in them, much to his horror. He’d been utterly disgusted when Geralt had insisted on harvesting drowner brains, even more so when he’d learned that those were a key ingredient in the potion that helped with his healing.

He’d been infinitively glad that it wasn’t him that had to drink that foul concoction.

More howls echoed through the trees. They sounded pained now.

_Good._

Hopefully this wouldn’t take much longer. He refused to go to sleep before Geralt had returned.

Moondust! That was the name of that wretched bomb.

How could he have forgotten that one? An actually decent name for a bomb meant to defeat a werewolf. Better than Samum, at least.

The woods had suddenly gone quiet around him, the crackling of the fire the only sound audible when he stopped strumming his lute. The silence felt eerie, and Jaskier sincerely hoped that Geralt was alright.

Just then he heard the crack of a branch to his left.

His head whipped around towards the source of the noise, eyes flicking across the tree line, trying to _see_. A shiver ran down his spine. Whoever had come out victorious of that fight was now here.

“Geralt?” he called out softly, a hint of worry in his tone. 

A figure stepped out of the shadows, and Jaskier breathed out a sigh of relief when he spotted messy white hair.

“You got me all worried there for a second, my friend.”

Geralt merely grunted, and moved over to the other side of the fire. But there was something off about that vocalization, and the way Geralt was clutching his side caused Jaskier’s brows to furrow.

“Geralt, are you injured?”

“Just a scratch,” came the gruff response.

Oh, but Jaskier was having none of that.

“Show me.”

“It’s just a scratch, Jaskier.”

“Then there’s no reason for you not to show me said scratch.”

He’d expected a glare thrown his way, but curiously enough Geralt only tilted his head further away from him.

What was going on?

“Please, Geralt. Just let me see, so we can fix you up.”

Geralt’s shoulders slumped in defeat and Jaskier took that as a sign that he could approach.

He gently placed his lute to the side and made his way over to the log Geralt was sitting on.

The closer he got the clearer he could see the blood. Must be a nasty gash on his right side, over his rips. Claw marks, obviously. The werewolf seemed to have gotten a good swipe in.

“That will need stitches,” he said as he bowed down to inspect the wound peeking out between torn armour.

Geralt hummed in agreement. And yet he still wasn’t looking at him.

“Can you take off your armour for me? I’m gonna go get the supplies we need to clean this up.”

He moved over to where he’d left Roach’s saddlebags, rifling through them to take out thread and needle, salves, alcohol as well as some bandages. He knew witchers healed faster than humans but there was no need for Geralt to be in unnecessary pain.

“Do you need a potion? The red one? What was it again, Swallow?”

“No.”

“You sure?” Jaskier frowned. “Couldn’t hurt now, could it?”

He threw a hesitant glance over his shoulder at the man, wondering what exactly was going on with him. That’s when he saw it.

Geralt’s pupils were blown wide, impossibly wide if one could even call it that. They were naught but black pits taking up the entirety of his eyes. Dark purplish veins spread across his face like an intricate web a spider left behind. His skin was ashen, lacking any and all color despite being bathed in the orange hues of the flames.

Jaskier’s breath hitched and he quickly averted his gaze.

That was why he wasn’t looking at him, wasn’t it?

Oh, darling.

Did he think that this would make him leave? That he would judge him for it? That he’d join the chorus of voices labeling him a monster; a butcher?

Was that why he had never returned as quickly as he had today after a hunt? Had he waited out the effects of the potions, hurt and suffering in the woods?

Jaskier frowned at the thought.

That just wouldn’t do from now on.

“Can’t,” Geralt said, replying to his previous query. “Already drank a few. Would be too much to add another.”

Jaskier stored the information away for a later date and quickly grabbed the supplies he needed, making an ample amount of noise to indicate that he was turning around again. If Geralt didn’t want him to see then he would pretend that he hadn’t. He wouldn’t pressure him, not when it was clearly something Geralt felt uncomfortable with.

Moving back over to where Geralt sat, he settled in front of him on his knees, depositing the supplies on the ground to his left. His hands were soft and sure as he inspected the wound with gentle prods. There didn’t seem to me much dirt in the wound, so cleaning it out would thankfully be a quick job.

“This is gonna sting a bit,” he warned before dapping a cloth drenched in alcohol on the wound.

Geralt tensed, his hands curling into fists which resulted in a trickle of blood seeping from the gashes.

Jaskier quickly dabbed it away with a different cloth.

“I take it the werewolf problem is taken care of then?”

“Hmm.”

He almost glanced up to tease the man for his trademark scarce reply but then thought better of it. Geralt was still looking away from him, staring off into the woods to his left, and Jaskier should really focus on the task in front of him.

Luckily he’d paid attention the first few times Geralt had stitched himself back together, so he busied himself with copying the motions, trying to be as quick and efficient as the dim light of the fire allowed.

He chattered away as he worked, talking about this and that while Geralt merely grunted at the sting of the needle now and then. It wasn’t until he’d completed the last stitch and was moving on to spread some salve onto the wound, remarking about the eerie brightness of the moon and how fitting it was for a battle between wolves that Geralt decided to speak up.

“You saw.”

Jaskier looked up at him then.

“Yes, I did.”

Geralt frowned and finally turned his head around to look at him. Those black pools raked over his features, almost as if he was trying to decipher an exceptionally complicated riddle.

“You’re not afraid.”

“Why should I be?” Jaskier asked, holding his gaze.

“Because _this_ ,” Geralt gestured to his face, “is what I am. A monster of its own kind.”

It was Jaskier’s turn to frown.

“Nothing, and I reiterate absolutely _nothing_ about you is monstrous, Geralt,” he said, his tone firm and decisive.

His eyes flickered over the altered features, his fingers itching to reach out and soothe away the doubt. It certainly was an intimidating sight, but truly, Jaskier wasn’t afraid of him. He doubted he ever could be. And then on the spur of the moment he dared to reach out and run the pad of his fingers over a purplish vein on Geralt’s cheekbone.

“Are you blind?” Geralt’s hand grabbed his. There was a weariness in his tone, the disbelief so deeply engraved that Jaskier was afraid his words wouldn’t be able to make much of a difference.

“Oh, I have two well-functioning eyes, my dear. My sight might not be as good as yours, what with your witcher senses and all, but in this case, it’s clearly you who cannot _see_.”

Geralt’s frown deepened.

“Our appearances can be deceiving,” Jaskier said softly. “It’s not what’s on the outside that defines who we are. And you, my darling witcher, are one of the kindest souls I’ve met. And if you thought for a second that this would be enough to make me run for the hills, then you are sorely mistaken. You’re stuck with me, my friend.”

Geralt huffed, but Jaskier could see the tension in his shoulders leave.

“Besides, you still owe me a story. And I expect more than a ‘We fought. The werewolf got a swipe in. I killed it’, you hear me?”

Geralt was still looking at him as he rambled on, his expression open, unguarded and almost fond for once, and Jaskier’s poor heart couldn’t help but stutter at the sight.

The trust Geralt was showing him right then and there, the sheer vulnerability of allowing him near when he was hurt, allowing him to take care of him, to _see_ him, caused Jaskier’s draconic instincts to surge forward with a fierceness he hadn’t anticipated.

Bollocks.

He swallowed hard and tried to focus on spreading the damned salve over Geralt’s wound and not on the direction his foolish instincts were taking him. No, this certainly wasn’t one of the steps usually done in a courtship. No, it wasn’t. And even if it was, he most definitely wouldn’t be courting Geralt. A witcher.

And yet when Geralt’s eyes slowly went back to their original colour, those blackened pupils retracting to their normal state, slitted and oh, so familiar, so like his own true form, Jaskier’s instincts started protesting vehemently against his previous statement.

All of a sudden, his body acted on its own, tilting his head to the side in a reciprocal gesture of trust, and half-panicked as he was by this unbidden development, Jaskier feebly tried to veil the action by pretending to inspect Geralt’s wound once more.

Focus. The salve. Yes. The salve.

His fingers reached out to spread the thick balm over the newly stitched together flesh, ignoring the way his head was still tilted side-ways for fuck’s sake, before grabbing a handful of bandages to wrap it all up. Just when he was almost done with the wrapping, letting out a shaky sigh of relief, Geralt’s fingers danced over his exposed neck.

His head snapped up, eyes wide, and Geralt, the unfair bastard just gave him a tiny, almost imperceptible smile.

“Thanks, Jaskier.”

His heart stuttered.

Oh fuck.

He cleared his throat and tucked the last strand of bandage into the wrapping.

“You’re very welcome, my friend.”

He quickly got up and went to store their supplies back into the saddlebags, all the while trying to collect his wit.

He’d actually just done that. Or more like his instincts had done that.

And Geralt had accepted.

No, he hadn’t, Jaskier thought fiercely, intent on squishing the thought before it could take root. Just because he’d trailed his fingers over his neck didn’t mean that he had an inkling of an idea what such an action meant to one of his kind. Melitele’s tits, he didn’t even know he was a dragon! Even if he did _, especially if he did_ , Jaskier doubted that Geralt would ever be interested in him.

It had felt right, though. To offer his neck like that. An equivalent to what he would have done in his true shape.

The show of trust could take on a variety of forms in draconic courting. There was no right or wrong when it came to this step, though the most common practice was to allow your intended close enough to show them the more vulnerable scales of your under-belly. A few more adventurous pairs opted for free-fall, tucking their wings in and letting gravity pull them down until at the last second they’d split apart, soaring through the sky with the knowledge of having gained your intended’s trust.

No matter which method was used for the step, the end result was the same. Mutual trust.

And if Jaskier’s jubilant instincts were to be believed, then he’d achieved just that tonight.

This was ridiculous. Utterly nonsensical.

Washing his hands off the smears of blood still lingering on them, Jaskier focused on ignoring the storm of emotions raging inside of him and opted for settling in his bedroll.

He just had to squash the notion. Early on. Problem solved.

Pulling the blanket up to his chin, he closed his eyes and listened to Geralt getting settled for the night. He was doubtful that he’d be able to get much rest tonight, but he at least had to try. They had a long trek back to Maribor ahead of them and the last thing he wanted to do was slow them down.

“Goodnight, Geralt.”

“Hmm.”

A smile flitted across his face at the sound. What an eloquent summary of the evening.

“Goodnight, Jaskier.”

Geralt’s voice was low rumble, husky yet soft around the syllables of his name.

The warmth that filled him then wasn’t just due to the proximity to the flames. No, something had shifted between them, and Jaskier couldn’t stop himself from smiling contentedly into his flimsy blanket, letting out a soft, pleased hum of his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do hope you guys enjoyed the chapter. I'm always happy to hear your comments and thoughts down below 💗


	4. Care

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so excited to share this chapter with you all~~ It took a bit longer than I would've liked for me to finish it, buuut you get an extra long chapter to make up for the wait!
> 
> I should perhaps also mention that this chapter features a depiction of burn wounds, just as a heads-up.

Things between them had indeed shifted ever since that momentous werewolf hunt. 

Despite the grunts and hums still being Geralt’s preferred method of communication, he’d slowly started to allow Jaskier in. It had been a gradual development. Nothing earth-shattering or ground-breaking, but each time Geralt had responded to his friendly banter, each time he’d accepted his casual touches, Jaskier’s poor hopeless heart had lit up.

The brush of his hand on Geralt’s thigh was no longer frowned upon, the gentle squeeze of thanks on Geralt’s shoulder when he was skinning their dinner even earning Jaskier a pleased hum in return. The trust built between them was ever present, felt in small ways, and growing steadily with each month spent at the witcher’s side.

The most monumental change between them, however, had been that Geralt now actively sought out his help whenever he’d been wounded. He was no longer hiding in the shadows, afraid of Jaskier’s reaction. No, the man now trudged into their camp bleeding or covered in monster guts more often than Jaskier liked.

He wasn’t exactly sure which of the two he loathed more. He would most definitely never be fond of Geralt getting bitten… or stabbed… or poisoned, slashed, stung or even clawed at. The gods knew the man didn’t need any more scars to prove his worth. Not that Jaskier minded the scars. No, he certainly did not. But Kikimora guts and foul-smelling swamp mud didn’t exactly make for a lovely combination either.

He’d grown used to the smell, though. His nose desensitized over time, and he didn’t want to imagine how horrendous the stench must be for Geralt himself. If he noticed the deep inhale Geralt took whenever Jaskier inspected him for injuries, soft fingers gently prodding against hardened muscle, he didn’t say anything - only made sure his stock of oils was replenished in the next larger city they ventured into.

He didn’t know whether his scent grounded Geralt or if it simply helped battle the sensory overload some potions caused, but Jaskier soon realized that more than anything, he registered as _safe_ in the witcher’s eyes these days. Whether he tossed and turned, got up to relieve himself in the middle of the night or hummed himself to sleep, it didn’t rouse Geralt from his slumber. He’d become something familiar. A stable companion . _A friend_.

The thought alone was enough to cause a content smile to flit over his face.

Geralt had even taken to meditate through his composing; only ever throwing him an irritated glare when Jaskier poked fun at him one too many times with his lyrics - which, to be fair, was a rather frequent occurrence. What could he say, he didn’t particularly enjoy his craft being ignored by the only audience he had. The result was always the same: a glare, a cheeky grin in response and then the roll of golden eyes in the dim light of their campfire. It had become a fond ritual of sorts for both of them.

One of many they’d settled into during their time together.

It was comfortable, travelling with Geralt.

Well, as comfortable as sleeping in the wilderness could be. But luckily, as a dragon Jaskier was at least somewhat used to it. He certainly preferred the wild in his true form to experiencing it in his more vulnerable human skin, but he made do with what he had.

And whenever their coin purses ran too low or his incessant whining about wanting to sleep in a bed for once became too much, they’d set off towards the next town. Geralt would head over to the alderman or scour through the town’s notice board for anything worth hunting while Jaskier busied himself with procuring them lodging and throwing in a good word for the witcher with the local folk.

Singing the man’s praises helped. And Jaskier soon noticed the reception they got in most villages morphing from scowls, threats and being spit at to silent indifference. Not necessarily what he was aiming for, but an improvement, nonetheless.

Geralt didn’t say anything. Didn’t acknowledge the change, but Jaskier could see the tension in those broad shoulders waning the longer they travelled together.

Their paths stumbled upon each other time and time again throughout the years. It didn’t come as much of a surprise then that he spent most of the warmer months by Geralt’s side. Jaskier cherished their time spent together. Far more than those months spent back in Oxenfurt or some noblemen’s court.

Truth be told, he hadn’t even given much thought to the perils the colder season could bring to those on the road, but when Geralt had first brought up wintering in Khaer Morhen, Jaskier had realized that he too, would have to settle somewhere for winter. Returning to the comforts of Oxenfurt had felt nice at first, yet he quickly came to realize that it wasn’t home. Not truly at least.

Luckily, it hadn’t taken long for him and Geralt to stumble upon each other again come spring. Jaskier had been on the road for all but three weeks when Geralt had burst into the tavern he’d been performing at, thoroughly covered in blood and splattered entrails from his latest quarry.

A thrill had shot down Jaskier’s spine at the sight, but he’d quickly shaken himself out of it and focused on procuring the man a much needed bath. Better to focus on getting Geralt clean again. Yes, clean Geralt was the preferred Geralt.

He’d still frowned at the surge of endorphins the sight of Geralt bathed in victory had caused, his instincts once again surging to the forefront of his mind and appraising the man for this strength and prowess.

Bloody hell.

Jaskier had tried to rein them back in whenever he accompanied his friend on the Path, which, frankly speaking, had been an uphill battle as of late. His draconic instincts had been utterly unruly. Not to mention those pesky little feelings he could sense budding inside of him. He did his best not to show them. To keep them hidden or distract himself by bedding a smitten barmaid or a handsome stable boy here and there, but Geralt wasn’t exactly making it easy on him.

The protectiveness was nothing new really, or at least that was how Jaskier’s instincts decided to interpret Geralt’s refusal to let him tag along on the more dangerous hunts. What was new, however, was the concern reflected in Geralt’s eyes.

His demeanour was still gruff whenever he tried to convince Jaskier of his foolery, but there was an underlying urgency hidden in his tone. Not letting him join the most riveting part of a witcher’s work seemed to have less to do with Jaskier being a potential distraction and more with keeping him out of harms’ way.

Then there was Geralt’s reaction to the more handsy patrons of the inn they had last been staying at. It wasn’t often that Jaskier didn’t relish in the attention freely given to him. But there had been something off about the lot, and his discomfort had only grown the longer his performance had gone on. And Geralt, perceptive as always, had instantly picked up on it.

He’d felt quite flattered, truly. Geralt knew him well enough to be able to distinguish between his subtle mannerisms and he cared enough to intervene. Not that Jaskier had doubted the later. Still, he’d been rather relieved that there had been no need for him to draw the dagger he kept hidden in his boot. Geralt’s looming shadow and menacing presence had been deterrent enough to ward off wandering hands for the rest of the evening. 

Nights like those made him miss his claws and teeth, though.

Well, now he had a witcher instead.

A fairly protective witcher – who had once again tried to brush him off when Jaskier had insisted on seeing Geralt battle the monster of the current contract he’d taken on. A massive beast was lurking in the nearby forest, and Jaskier was intent on seeing this fight.

It hadn’t been an easy argument to win. They’d bantered and quarrelled, and Jaskier had to pull all the tricks he’d had up his sleeve, but finally, sweet Melitele, _finally_ Geralt had relented.

The witcher had grumbled and glared as he put the tack onto Roach, but Jaskier was too elated to care. He was thrumming with excitement as he trailed alongside Roach, speculating what kind of monster Geralt would be facing this time around.

He was positively thrilled at the prospect of witnessing the fight in all its glory. He finally wouldn’t have to press the taciturn man for every small, little detail - which more often than not tended to be of the more monosyllabic sort. And then Geralt had the _audacity_ to complain about the embellishments he added to his songs. Hah! Not this time, however.

This time he’d get what he needed. A first-hand testimony with as much detail of the gruesome battle as his eyes could take in. 

He hummed to himself. His fingers itched for his lute strings, eager to start. Yet, he refrained, knowing full well that he had to keep quiet the closer they got. 

About twenty minutes later, Geralt brought Roach to an abrupt halt.

“Geralt?”

“Shit.”

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s a fiend.”

“Oh! That sounds like a marvellous fight to witness,” he cheered, excitement thick in his voice. “A good name for a monster too, easy to rhyme.”

“You shouldn’t have come.”

Jaskier frowned. “Yet, here I am.”

Geralt was eyeing the forest warily, his senses on high alert.

Broken branches littered the ground to their left, the wood splintered off where it had once been attached to the surrounding trees. Something had barrelled its way through here; something of quite significant size, judging by the uprooted greenery.

“A fiend is nothing to joke about, Jaskier,” the witcher retorted gruffly.

And there it was again. That _tone_. 

“Look, Geralt. It’s not like there’s a way for me to find my way back now, in the thickest of this forest. So can we just move along with the grumbling and trying to convince me otherwise? Because really, my friend, there’s no point. Fiend or not.”

Geralt threw him an exasperated look and sighed, but then started to steer Roach forward again.

Hah! Sweet victory.

Jaskier grinned. That had been easier than he’d thought.

Unfortunately, his joyful mood didn’t last very long.

The woods around them grew thicker and thicker the deeper they ventured into their midst. Gnarled roots dipped in and out of the ground, a meandering maze created with the sole purpose of tripping unwanted visitors. Twisted branches reached down towards them like winding fingers grasping for thin air, chasing them forward into their inevitable doom.

Jaskier shuddered at the eerie feeling this forest was giving off. He could feel the presence of _something_ in here, even with his diminished senses. The sensation only grew stronger with each passing moment and just when he was about to comment on it, the trees opened up in front of them.

A large clearing appeared ahead.

“Is this is?” Jaskier asked and glanced around the open space, his voice hushed.

Geralt hummed and dismounted. 

Staying quiet, he watched as Geralt steered Roach towards a larger tree and hid her behind the thick trunk, for once deciding against tethering her. Then he pulled out a vial of oil from the saddlebags and carefully started applying it to his silver sword.

The movements were careful, yet meticulous. Geralt knew exactly how to handle the blade – whether in or out of battle. The calm alertness with which the witcher conducted himself never ceased to amaze Jaskier. There was just _something_ about the anticipatory tension in Geralt’s frame; something about the focused determination reflected in those golden eyes that caused a shiver to run down Jaskier’s spine. 

Once Geralt deemed his sword coated enough, he put the vial back and carefully took out two bombs. Samum, Jaskier noticed.

Then his eyes landed on Jaskier.

“Stay put.”

“Excuse me?” he exclaimed in mock offense. “I am not a hors-“

“Do _not_ draw its attention, and do _not_ , under any circumstances look it in the eye when the floor starts vibrating.”

That was oddly specific.

“Why-“

“Hypnotic attack,” Geralt grunted.

Oh.

“ _Just. Stay. Hidden_. You shouldn’t even be here in the first place,” Geralt stressed, scowling.

Jaskier let out a soft huff. But before he could argue, Geralt had already started moving.

Crossing his arms he watched as Geralt stalked forward along the edge of the clearing, careful to never venture out into the open space. He was deadly silent. Not a single branch snapped beneath his feet. His advance was stealthy; his movements calculated.

Jaskier bit his lip.

He glanced over to Roach. If he remembered their inventory correctly, then they should have more than those two bombs prepared. It couldn’t really hurt to have something at hand to help or defend himself with, right?

As silently as he could be he inched closer to Roach. She eyed him warily and let out a soft snort, almost as if in warning. 

“Yes, yes I know. No moving away,” he hushed. “I’m still staying put, alright?”

He moved over to her side, ignored her second, more forceful snort and glanced into the saddlebags. Aha! There they were. Neatly stored at the bottom right where he’d assumed them to be, lay multiple Samum bombs.

Jaskier quickly grabbed two of them as well as a flint and a piece of steel and moved back behind the tree. Just in time too, before a viscous roar echoed through the clearing.

Oh shit.

He could hear a loud grunt and the clinking of armour as Geralt must have rolled out of the way of the charging beast. He glanced out from behind the trunk and there Geralt was, crouched on the ground, sword in hand and poised low, a yellow flicker surrounding his body.

But that wasn’t what caused Jaskier’s breath to catch.

Opposite of Geralt loomed the fiend.

A truly ugly monstrosity. At first glance it almost resembled a deer, were it not for its size. It stood tall on powerful paws; about as tall as a barn, taller even with those twisted antlers growing like spikes from its head. A walking mountain of muscles, and when it twisted its head just so, Jaskier could spy the third eye Geralt had warned him of.

That was as far as his observations went, before it angrily shook its head and charged again.

He watched with bated breath as Geralt stood his ground. He stood and stood, until at the last moment he finally rolled out of the way, the fiend missing his form by only an inch.

The beast came to an abrupt halt a few meters away, but Geralt was faster.

Using the momentum of his roll, he was up and in a crouched position before the beast had even turned around. He quickly darted forward and cut into the fiend’s hind leg. He was aiming for the tendon, trying to disable it.

The fiend roared in pain and tried to move out of the way, but Geralt merely danced around the massive hulk and got a few more slashes in.

A tooth-filled head capped with spiked horns swiped at him in retaliation, but Geralt managed to dodge the attack by rolling backwards and putting some distance between himself and his target.

A powerful paw was aimed at the witcher next, the fiend infuriated by its inability to hit him. Jaskier could see the sharp claws glinting in the light of the sun, but Geralt ducked beneath the paw and launched a quick counterattack into its side.

The fiend let out a loud screech as three more slashes landed onto its hide.

There was a pattern to Geralt’s movements. A strategy - and Jaskier could see it now.

Geralt waited for the beast to attack, then dodged or parried his way around the massive form to aim at its more vulnerable side and back. It almost looked like dancing from a distance, so swift and graceful. An elaborate choreography only a true master could execute with such precision.

The more slashes the witcher managed to land, though, the angrier the fiend got. Its sole focus now lied on squashing the annoying fly pestering it, to skewer the pesky witcher on those dreadful antlers and watch him bleed out to death as if he was nothing. 

Jaskier shuddered at the thought, unwilling to even picture it. He’d never let it come so far.

The fiend stamped its paws and took a different approach. It crouched down onto the ground, and all of a sudden the floor started vibrating.

Bollocks.

Dread rose within him as he watched Geralt take a fumbled step to the side. A quick movement with his hand followed. A sign most likely, and oh thank the gods, the vibrations stopped. The fiend seemed to slow, its movements lethargic now, almost like a puppet whose strings were being pulled.

Axii.

Geralt must have cast Axii.

He watched as the witcher moved around the fiend.

Geralt took one glance at the beast’s hind leg before he raised his sword high and brought it down with all the strength he had, right onto the spot he’d hit before.

The fiend shrieked as it was torn from its trance, the sound shrill. A true cry of agony. Blood poured from the wound and Geralt raised his sword once more, readying it for another attack.

But Jaskier could see the way the fiend twisted its body around, could see the clawed paw aimed right at Geralt.

Oh, no. _No, no, no._

Geralt’s sword hit true. But so did the fiend’s paw.

Jaskier’s stomach lurched as he watched Geralt being flung into the air, his sword torn from his hand. A yellow explosion lit up the sky around them and the fiend flinched back, disoriented by the sudden brightness.

Geralt hit the ground a few meters away from the beast with a loud hollow thump.

Oh, fuck. _Geralt!_

Jaskier leaned forward, his fingers gripping the rough bark of the tree anxiously. He waited. Waited for anything; any sign that Geralt was alright. Quen must have helped somehow, no? He should be alright. He must be.

His eyes were glued to Geralt’s prone form.

Come on. Come oooon.

It felt like a small eternity before he finally heard the low groaned ‘fuck’ coming from where Geralt had landed.

Oh, thank the gods.

Geralt was alright. He was okay.

His joy was short-lived, though.

Movement to Geralt’s left caused his eyes to flit over to the fiend. It was limping now. Clearly unable to hold its weight properly, but the way it threw his head back and roared was telling enough. Its eyes glimmered with the single-minded desire to kill.

Jaskier needed to do something.

_Anything._

Grabbing the bombs, he hastily placed them to the ground and fumbled for the flint.

He could see Geralt trying to get up out of the corner of his eye, but he couldn’t pay attention right now. He needed to focus. 

He needed a spark. A fucking spark.

He hit the steel down on the sharp edge of the flint, right over the bombs. He just needed one spark to catch. Only one.

A few sparks came off, but none caught.

Fuck.

He tried not to panic, and brought the flint down again. He could hear the fiend pawing the ground once more, and he knew what was coming. It was going to charge at Geralt again.

He was about to give up, and considered outright transforming to take care of the dreadful thing in his true form, when a spark finally caught.

Smoke rose from the match cord, and Jaskier could have wept with joy.

He got up, grabbed the bomb and all but screamed into the clearing, “Oi! I’m over here, you hideous piece of shit.”

The fiend stopped pawing and tilted its head in his direction.

“If you have anything up in that monstrously ugly head of yours, you’d aim for me,” he yelled, waving at himself for emphasis. “I’m the much easier target you see. Less evasive. No bloody swords to swing around either.”

The fiend slowly turned around.

Good.

‘Come at me’, he thought, unflinching.

Geralt seemed to be mostly alright. A bit banged up and still scowling from what he could tell, but Jaskier took it as a win anyway.

Less could be said about his position.

The fiend had started pawing again, only this time it wasn’t turned towards Geralt.

Jaskier’s heart was jack rabbiting in his chest as he looked it dead in the eyes.

Then it charged.

And Jaskier threw.

He was shaking, his fingers crushing the flint in his left hand as he watched the bomb fly through the air. The fiend was gaining on him. It was slower than before with its injury, but the towering mountain of muscles was coming closer and closer.

And just when Jaskier considered transforming for the second time within minutes, the bomb exploded.

Right in the fiend’s face.

It shrieked and halted its assault, disoriented by the loud sound and smoke bellowing into its eyes.

Jaskier stood there, frozen, and watched as the beast continued shrieking. It pawed at its head in a hopeless attempt to make the sensory overload go away - its movement wild, frenzied.

He’d hit it. _He’d actually hit it._

His eyes darted over towards Geralt, who – thank the gods - had managed to pick up his sword again in the meantime. He was crouched low, assessing the situation. Jaskier hadn’t even noticed that the witcher had cast Quen again, but the yellow shimmer surrounded his form once more, like a safety blanket. One Jaskier was infinitely grateful of seeing. 

He took a deep breath and tried to compose himself. Geralt had this.

Using the confusion of the bomb to his advantage, Geralt dashed forward to strike at the fiend’s vulnerable sides once more. It roared, loud and pained as multiple slashes landed in quick succession. More blood poured from the wounds, running down its hide in thick rivulets. 

The bomb seemed to have worked in Geralt’s favor as well. The fiend could hardly see. It was disoriented and hobbling now - an easy target. Geralt struck again, and again, and again, his swipes quick and merciless, his assault unrelenting.

Jaskier was mesmerized. Each slice was precise, intentional.

The fiend swept its head towards Geralt, but it was too slow. The witcher danced out of range of the antlers and launched a swift counterattack.

Jaskier’s eyes followed the downward movement of Geralt’s sword and as he did, he suddenly noticed the wisps of smoke rising from the ground below him. 

He glanced down, and oh shit.

Fuck. Fuck. _Fuck._

The second bomb had caught fire as well. And the match cord was almost entirely gone.

Fucking cock.

He kicked the bomb. As hard as he could.

But it was too late. 

An overwhelming blast of sound and light engulfed him. He’d barely had enough time to hold up his hands to cover his face before the suffocating smell of powders hit him.

The shock-wave came next. And with it came the blazing heat. He felt flames lick at his hands, felt the fire sear their mark into his palms. It felt like a molten inferno had been unleashed upon him, like his skin was being burnt right off of them.

Jaskier screamed out in pain.

It _hurt._ Fuck it hurt. It hurt so goddamned much.

The shock-wave had pushed him back towards the edge of the forest, and Jaskier felt dizzy.

Opening his eyes did very little for his orientation. His ears felt like they were stuffed with cotton, and the blinding flash of light dancing behind his lids made it hard to see.

He stumbled back, hands held up in front of him. 

He didn’t know where he was.

He didn’t know what was happening around him.

Where was Geralt?

Was he still fighting?

His ears were ringing. He couldn’t hear. He couldn’t fucking hear.

At least his eyes slowly started working again. He blinked the tears that had gathered away and tried to focus on his hands.

Oh gods.

They were red, so, so red. And were started to swell. 

He took a deep breath and tried to ground his rattled instincts that urged him to take on his true form. His scales would protect him. He’d be less vulnerable, less out in the open. He’d have his claws, his teeth, his _fire_. 

No, he couldn’t. That would do him no good right now. 

He needed to focus. Focus, Jaskier.

He was shivering, his hands trembling. He knew that the pain he felt now was nothing compared to what it would be like in a few minutes, when the adrenaline had faded away.

Fuck.

Geralt, where was Geralt? He needed Geralt.

The smoke started billowing away, and finally, he could see the witcher.

Geralt was standing over the carcass of the fiend, blood-caked sword in hand. Victorious.

Thank the gods.

“Ge--Geralt,” he croaked, voice shaky. “Geralt.”

He took a fumbled step forward, hands still angled up and away from his body.

Geralt’s eyes darted over to him. He must have seen his hands, or heard the pain in his voice because he was at his side in a matter of seconds, gently taking hold of his lower arm to inspect the burns on his palms.

“Fuck.” 

“F-Fuck, indeed,” Jaskier rasped.

The pain was slowly starting to become worse. Now that the imminent threat was gone, the adrenaline was quickly fading.

“It hurts,” he whimpered.

Geralt nodded and whistled. The sound was muffled, not nearly as loud as Jaskier was used to, but at least he could hear again.

He tried to focus on the sensation of Geralt’s hand on his arm, but the pain was becoming too much. There was no distracting him from the agony of his open palms. They felt raw and oversensitive. Every little movement _hurt_.

Roach appeared out of the foliage and Jaskier had never been more grateful for seeing her. He wasn’t sure if any of their supplies would help with burns such as these, but they must have _something_.

Instead of taking out the supplies, though, Geralt took hold of his hips and lifted him up into the saddle. The momentum caused him to sway forward, but before he was forced to use one of his injured hands to right himself, Geralt’s palm was on his chest and held him steady.

“I’ve got you.”

“Mmh,” he hummed, head muddled from the pain. “Still hurts.”

“I know,” Geralt said and mounted up behind him.

He steered Roach forward. Jaskier dimly worried about Geralt not having collected the fiend’s head as proof of a contract fulfilled, but as another wave of pain hit, he was suddenly grateful that Geralt had decided that they needed to hurry.

He was starting to shiver now. His hands throbbed with the steady drum of his heartbeat, each pulse more painful than the last.

Was this what his victims felt when he bathed them in his flames?

Death by fire suddenly seemed like a rather unattractive way to go.

A sword-calloused hand settled on his stomach and pressed him back against Geralt’s chest, the touch careful yet firm. He leaned into Geralt’s sturdy frame, relishing in the heat radiating off of him. It helped with the shuddering tremors wrecking through his body.

“D-do you think, I’ll be able to play again?”

“And annoy the shit out of me? Given how much of a stubborn bastard you are, I don’t doubt it.”

Jaskier let out a soft, pained laugh. “Truly?”

“You’ll be fine, Jaskier.”

Jaskier hummed, somewhat reassured.

He knew that Geralt wouldn’t lie to him, so he let his head loll back onto Geralt’s shoulder and tried to ignore the stinging pain. He focused on the soft rocking sensation of Roach’s gait and the passing treetops instead. It helped, but he still felt like he was floating in an ocean of unending agony.

Unsurprisingly, it took him way longer than it usually would have to notice that they weren’t headed in the same direction they had come from.

“Geralt? Where are we going?”

“There’s a stream nearby,” Geralt said. “You need to cool your hands. It should help alleviate the pain.”

“That would be very welcome, indeed,” Jaskier said, wincing. Hand-gestures apparently weren’t a wise move right now. 

“Just keep them still.”

“Not my forte, my friend,” he admitted with a weak quirk of his lips. “They tend to have a mind of their own.”

Geralt grunted, and Jaskier didn’t have to see his face to know that Geralt had rolled his eyes at him.

Roach came to a halt a bit later, causing Jaskier to lift his head. He looked around, and there to their left was a medium-sized stream. Frowning, he fought the urge to touch his ears. He hadn’t even heard the gurgle of the water.

Geralt dismounted. And before Jaskier could even attempt to make his own descent, he was lifted from the horse yet again, as if he weighed nothing. His poor heart stuttered. That was just utterly unfair, if you asked him.

But Geralt was gentle with him, ever mindful of his injured palms, so Jaskier graciously forgave him for the heart palpations caused. 

Geralt led him to the stream, his hand a steady reassurance on Jaskier’s elbow. He crouched down where the water was slightly deeper and gestured for him to follow suit. Jaskier hesitated for a brief moment, then crouched down as well and slowly, ever so slowly placed his wounded hands into the water.

Oh gods.

The relief was instantaneous.

Jaskier groaned. “Sweet Melitele, this is good. Can we stay here? Please?”

“We need to find you a healer.”

“I wouldn’t mind that either, but I’d have to move from this blessedly cool spot and I’d currently rather not.”

The pain slowly started to ebb away, like the water was carrying it away, the current taking the hurt with it. Jaskier shuddered from the reprieve. The fresh spring water felt like a soothing balm on the raw wound, and he finally started to feel a bit more like himself again.

“Only a few more minutes. At most, Jaskier.”

He glanced over at Geralt and frowned. “Am I missing something? What’s the harm?”

“Lowering your body temperature’s the harm,” Geralt explained. “That could cause more pain and damage than what you’re dealing with right now.”

“Let’s avoid that then,” he agreed and sat down. “I’ve had enough pain for one day.”

The colder temperature was doing wonders in numbing the sting and Jaskier dared to lift one hand out of the water to assess the damage.

The skin was still red, though not brown or charred. That was a promising sign. The swelling had also gone down a bit, the water doubtlessly helping. He quickly put his hand back in and sighed as the chilly stream surrounded his palm once more.

He truly wouldn’t mind staying like this for a while.

All too soon, though, Geralt insisted that they move on.

He begrudgingly lifted his hands from the water and slowly tried to get up. Even a simple task such as standing up proved to be much harder without the assistance of his hands, so Geralt had to steady him again. The troubled look on Geralt’s face when his eyes landed on Jaskier’s red and slightly swollen hands was almost enough to warrant a bit of teasing. The great white wolf, worried for his humble bard.

Alas, he simply did not have the energy for it.

He let himself be lifted onto Roach again and immediately leaned back into Geralt’s broad frame once he’d mounted up as well. Jaskier hadn’t been able to appreciate the proximity before, but now that the pain was a bit more manageable, he’d be damned not to enjoy being so close to Geralt.

He almost dozed off twice during their ride back, but the pain kept him awake. The detour to the stream meant that their return was taking a bit longer, and by the end of it Jaskier was impossibly grateful to spy the town in the distance.

The pain had gotten worse again without the cooling aid of the water, and he couldn’t help but let out a pained gasp whenever the wind washed over the sensitive injury. The air rushing past them cut into his open palms like a myriad of tiny little daggers, and Jaskier had to hold back a few sobs as they neared their destination.

Geralt tensed each time he made a sound; the muscled arms surrounding him tightening the tiniest bit, almost as if he wanted to shield him from the hurt.

A tired smile wormed its way onto Jaskier’s face at the thought. He was hurting, yes. But he felt safe in those arms. No further harm would come to him here.

Once they had finally reached the village, Geralt helped him down.

The entire trip to the healer proved to be less eventful than Jaskier had anticipated. He was given some frankly disgusting willow bark to chew on for the pain, whilst the healer busied herself with mashing up some sort of cooling salve for his hands.

He could smell honey, and some other plant he had never seen before, but as long as it helped, Jaskier cared fairly little. Geralt on the other hand, was watching her every move like a hawk. Jaskier wasn’t sure whether the witcher was distrusting of the poor lady and her craft or if he merely wanted to know what she used to recreate it later.

The salve was cool on his skin, though. A stark contrast to the heat still radiating off his injured hands.

The healer, Agnes, as it turned out, loosely wrapped some clean bandages around his wounds and instructed him to keep them clean, to re-apply the salve twice a day and to avoid wrapping them too tightly. Apparently his hands needed to breathe.

If blisters were to appear, Jaskier should refrain from poking at them or even breaking them. He’d risk getting an infection, otherwise.

Yeah, no, he’d rather do without one, thank you very much.

To his astonishment it was Geralt who brought up his previous concern. “He's a bard,” he said, arms crossed. “He’ll be able to play again, right?”

Agnes looked surprised, her eyes darting back and forth between them. She was surely wondering what a bard was doing meddling in a witcher’s business. He was helping. That’s what he was doing.

“If he listens to the instructions, he should be able to wield his instrument again within a week or two,” she replied, slowly.

Jaskier perked up at that.

“A week or two?” he asked.

“ _If_ you do as told.”

“Melitele bless you, my dear. You have my eternal gratitude,” Jaskier beamed, utterly relieved. 

One or two weeks. He could deal with that. He’d miss his lute, but at least he still had his voice. That was a much better verdict than what he had dared hope for.

Agnes raised an unimpressed brow and turned around to face Geralt. “Just make sure this one doesn’t overdo it. The hands are a tricky bit to heal.”

Jaskier would have usually been affronted by the dismissive behaviour of his person, but right now he was too elated to care.

Geralt just grunted his assent and paid her.

They left with a few more pieces of willow bark tucked into his doublet and Geralt carrying the fresh bandages and salve Jaskier would need in the coming days. He had every intention of following Agnes’ instructions to the letter.

“What an adventure,” he sighed as they made their way back to the inn. “I could certainly use a drink right now.”

He half-expected Geralt to grunt or hum in reply, but all he got was silence.

Frowning, Jaskier glanced over at him. Geralt had been oddly quiet throughout the entire ordeal - even more so than usual. Something was off.

He seemed relieved, yes. The tension in his shoulders was gone, but a deep-set scowl had taken its place instead. One Jaskier was somewhat familiar with. Geralt was warring with himself.

Best to leave him alone then, Jaskier concluded.

A wise decision.

One look around the bustling tavern was enough for the solitary witcher to stomp off towards their room.

Jaskier shrugged. He was feeling a bit more at-ease now with the pain held at bay. That foul willow bark seemed to actually work, though he still preferred the dreadful taste in his mouth gone. With that thought in mind he wandered over to the barmaid and requested food and drink to be brought up to their rooms.

She glanced down at his bandaged hands and gave a quick nod, not insisting on collecting the coin right away, which Jaskier was grateful for. Taking out his coin purse would have caused him a world of pain, no doubt.

He walked up the stairs and quickly found himself in another predicament right at the door.

Shit. He couldn’t even open the damned door.

“Geralt?” he called. “Could you, ehm, please open the door?”

He could hear a soft clank from within the room, a few footsteps and then the door opened.

Geralt was still in his armour, blood-spatters scattering over the weathered leather and the shirt underneath. He hadn’t even noticed those before - nor the ones staining Geralt’s silver hair in a rusty maroon colour.

Jaskier glanced around the room to see what the previous sound had been about. Spotting the silver sword lying on the ground as well as the rag next to it, his brows furrowed.

Was Geralt planning on heading out again?

Perhaps he was going to collect the fiend’s head and wanted to make sure that his weapons were in order? That would make sense.

Nodding to himself, Jaskier walked into the room and settled into the chair next to the small table. He watched as Geralt moved past him and went back to cleaning his sword. The repetitive sound of the cloth over the silver was soothing. It was something familiar, something reassuring, really. They were both alright. Both safe.

The soft clink of an oil vial being pulled out caused Jaskier to startle. Surprised, he glanced at Geralt’s hands that were now expertly spreading the oil onto a fresh, clean cloth.

 _He’d heard that._ He’d heard _all_ of that.

Oh thank the gods. His hearing was fine again.

Jaskier let out a relieved hum.

“I ordered us some food,” he announced, voice soft. “Though, I fret that you’ll have to give our dear barmaid the coin once it arrives. I was a bit… indisposed.”

Geralt glanced up, his eyes landing on Jaskier’s bandaged hands.

Something flashed in those amber hues, but before Jaskier had the time to pinpoint the emotion, it had vanished again.

The frown on Geralt’s face, however, was still present and it looked like he was about to say something when a knock sounded against the door.

Putting his sword to the side, Geralt got up and opened the door.

The barmaid from before came in with a tray in her hands. Balanced on top of it were two bowls filled to the brim with a hearty stew, a large freshly baked loaf of bread as well as two tankards of ale.

She must have taken pity on him, Jaskier realized.

He wasn’t one to complain about food freely given, though, so he sent her a bright, winning smile. “Thank you so much, my dear. You’re an absolute darling.”

She blushed, accepted the coin Geralt handed her and hurried back downstairs, but not before sending him a sympathetic smile of her own.

The door fell shut behind her and Jaskier turned around towards the tray that had been left on the table.

“It seems like my careless injury comes with some merits,” he joked light heartedly, gesturing to their plentiful dinner. “Good thing I’m absolutely famished. Come, sit, Geralt. You must be starving too, after such a grand battle.”

_“Jaskier.”_

Geralt sounded thoroughly unamused, and Jaskier had the nagging feeling that whatever storm had been brewing on their way back was about to be unleashed on him.

“Yes, my friend?”

“What you did out there, was foolish. And fucking _reckless_.” Geralt was staring at him, eyes narrowed, voice gruff. “You could have fucking _died_ , Jaskier.”

“Ah, but you see, I didn’t. No use in crying over spilt milk now is there?” he replied, shrugging. “I’m here. In one piece. Well… mostly one piece, minus a few layers of skin.”

Geralt let out a low, warning growl.

No humour then, noted.

Jaskier sighed.

“What’s done is done, my friend. Really, my only concern now is how long I’ll be out of commission. What will the poor villagers do without my sublime entertainment?“

“This isn’t a fucking joke, Jaskier.”

“Do I look like I’m joking to you? It’s quite serious, you see. Now that these people have had a taste of true artistry, it would be a cruel deed to leave without giving them an encore.”

Geralt’s scowl deepened.

“As soon as you’re better we’re splitting up. This is too dangerous for you.”

“Nonsense! I just know not to meddle with your bombs from now on.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt warned, his tone clipped.

“Though, I do have to say that my aim was quite commendable.”

He threw the exasperated witcher a cheeky wink and reached for the tankard of ale. If they were having this discussion he needed something to drink. But before he could so much as grab the damned thing properly, a wave of blinding pain shot through his palm.

Shit. Bloody hell. That fucking hurt.

Wincing, he gingerly placed his hand back on the table, careful not to put any further pressure on his throbbing palm.

He glared at the offending tankard. Perhaps it was simply too heavy. Something lighter might work. Switching to his other hand he tried to reach for the loaf of bread.

“Fact remains that it is too dangerous for you,” Geralt said, voice stern. The man was still scowling at him, clearly not quite done with their argument.

Unperturbed by Geralt’s sudden protective streak, Jaskier merely smiled up at him. “I’ll follow you anyway, my dear witcher. Danger or not.”

Geralt crossed his arms, ready to argue, but Jaskier was quicker.

“Oh and _this_ , my dear friend,” he gestured to his hands, “is entirely my own fault. So, please stop trying to convince me of the overt reality that the Path is dangerous. I’m quite aware. I’ve been with you for what? Five years now? And you think I hadn’t noticed?”

He let out a soft chuckle.

“But if we must discuss perils and risks then let me tell you this: Neither the streets of Oxenfurt nor those of Novigrad or any other major city for that matter are less dangerous than the Path - especially if you don’t know how to peruse them. So really, am I not much safer, dare I say, even the safest by your side?“

He chanced a glance up at the brooding man. Geralt was staring at him, brows furrowed, but he seemed to mull over his words. Good.

With a small nod to himself, Jaskier turned his attention towards the bread again. Mayhap this had been an easier argument to win than he’d thought.

He carefully placed his fingertips on the bread. It stung, but it was nowhere near as torturous as the tankard had been. Adding more pressure to the loaf, he tried to rip a chunk off and oh fuck, fuck, fuck, _fuck_.

Ouch.

Bad decision.

Bloody hell.

Jolts of pain shot through the tips of his fingers all the way down to the rest of his hand, and he couldn’t help but let out a low hiss as the painful throbbing sensation returned. Flinching back, he immediately let go of the loaf.

Shit.

What was he supposed to do now?

A low grunt to his left caught his attention. He turned around just in time to witness the tail-end of Geralt’s eye-roll.

“Give it here.”

“Excuse me?”

Instead of answering, Geralt walked over to the table and with one easy hand movement ripped a piece of bread off the loaf. Jaskier frowned, but then all coherent thought scattered to the wind when Geralt of fucking Rivia stoically held the piece to Jaskier’s mouth.

Jaskier’s jaw dropped. Wait, what?

Flabbergasted, he stared up at Geralt. 

Was he-

He was.

He fucking was.

A smile curled on his lips as Geralt shook the piece impatiently. Not wanting to make the man wait any longer, Jaskier swiftly took the offered morsel and let out a soft, pleased hum as he started chewing.

He couldn’t believe it. Geralt was feeding him. _Feeding him_.

Jaskier himself was having a hard time wrapping his head around the situation, but his instincts? His instincts were going absolutely feral. He could barely contain the delighted glow radiating off of him at being so well taken care of. Geralt had protected him. Had made sure that Jaskier was safe, that his wounds were treated, and now? Now he was providing for him, like a do-

Fuck.

He needed to distract himself from this.

Geralt had ripped off another piece, this time dunking it into the stew to soak up the liquid and was holding it out for him once again. He didn’t seem to have even considered eating himself, too focused on taking care of Jaskier.

Jaskier gulped, his heart fluttering.

“This is a bit less romantic than I’d pictured it,” he teased. “But-“

“Do you wish to eat or not?” Geralt interrupted tersely, withdrawing the piece for good measure.

“Oh, oh no, my dear, please _do_ continue,” Jaskier amended, “I fear, I’m currently rather useless. Can’t even wash those nasty bits out of your hair in my current state.”

Geralt let out an exasperated sigh, but brought the piece back to hover at Jaskier’s lips.

He took it and tried his hardest not to outright stare at the supposedly scary monster-hunter who was currently busy providing for him.

His heart swelled at the gesture of care. His hands were long forgotten, the pain having alleviated as soon as that first morsel had hit his tongue. And Geralt kept on feeding him, apathetically one might add, but that didn’t stop Jaskier’s heart from thrumming.

He wanted to reciprocate. Wanted to take care of Geralt as much as he was taking care of him. He needed to. His instincts tugged at him, insistent. It was only just. A courtship was give and take, and the ball was in Jaskier’s court right now.

He let out a soft sigh at the thought. There was no arguing with his instincts tonight. He was too tired, too exhausted from the physical and mental perils the day had entailed.

Geralt seemed to sense as much. For once Jaskier had drowned the last bit of the tankard gently held to his lips, he waved at the bed and said, “go get some rest. You need it.”

“I think I shall.” Jaskier yawned. “Thank you, Geralt. For… _this_.”

Geralt hummed and started eating his own bowl of stew that must have gone cold in the meantime. Jaskier frowned, guilt gnawing at him. There was nothing that could be done about it now, though. He’d just have to make sure that Geralt’s breakfast would be warm at least.

He trudged over to the left bed that was his for the time being and slowly sat down. Usually he’d have preferred to wash off the grime of the day, but in his current state that didn’t seem like a feasible option. As did opening the pesky buttons of his doublet. He glared at the offending garment and let out a soft huff.

Oh well, it could be worse than sleeping in his clothes, and he didn’t exactly dare to ask Geralt for help in this matter. He doubted his poor heart nor his instincts could take it if the white wolf were to actually undress him tonight.

He shivered at the thought. Best not to go down that route.

He lied down and spared one last glance at Geralt.

“You’ll still be here come morning, won’t you?”

Geralt looked up from his bowl, brows furrowed.

“You’re hurt.”

“Yes, I’d noticed. That doesn’t answer my question, Geralt.”

“I won’t abandon you.”

“Whilst I’m hurt?”

Geralt’s eyes met his.

“I won’t abandon you, Jaskier.”

Oh.

_Oh._

Warmth spread through him then, the words and underlying message nestling into his fluttering heart as if they had always belonged there. 

“Okay then,” he said, a soft smile curling on his lips. “Thank you, Geralt.”

“Hmm.”

Closing his eyes, Jaskier allowed the feeling of contentment to settle deep into his bones. He was right where he wanted to be. He felt calm, at ease, appreciated.

His hands still throbbed from time to time, but the pain was alleviated by the knowledge that Geralt cared for him. Cared so deeply. Even if he’d never admit it out loud. But Jaskier _knew_. Knew that Geralt’s actions spoke louder than his words, and what he’d done for him today… well he might as well have shouted it out into the woods for everyone to hear.

The corners of his lips quirked up into a small smile, and it was with that silly image in mind that Jaskier finally let himself succumb to a deep slumber. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys enjoyed the chapter and the fight scene. Those are always a bit of a pain to write :D As always, I'd be thrilled to hear your comments and thoughts down below 💗


	5. Chamomile

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've finally finished editing this chaper, so here it is. Enjooy~~

The following days went by much the same. Geralt kept on taking care of him, albeit with the same indifferent air around him as before. Yet he still did it, no questions asked. He’d taken one look at Jaskier’s reddened palms and the few blisters forming and had wordlessly spread more salve onto them, before gently, ever so gently bandaging them once more.

And when Jaskier had still been unable to do much of anything come midday, not even capable of holding his damned cutlery, Geralt had taken it upon himself to feed him – much to the bewilderment of the other patrons in the inn.

Jaskier hadn’t been able to hold himself back from grinning smugly at the utterly baffled expressions. It would do them all some good to see the witcher’s gentle heart in action. He had almost snorted into his soup though, at the rather perplexed look the barmaid had given them when she’d seen Geralt holding up a piece of bread to his mouth on the third day.

Geralt had merely raised a brow at him, doubtlessly already more than aware of the hushed whispers floating around the room given his enhanced hearing. Jaskier’s grin had only widened at that, and Geralt had let out an exasperated huff in return.

His instincts, however, had thriven off the treatment. Emboldened by Geralt’s actions, they surged to the forefront of his mind more fiercely now, prodding him again and again to reciprocate. And Jaskier wanted to. Not just because his instincts urged him to, no. He wanted to give Geralt as much as he’d received. Geralt _deserved_ to be treated with care, even though he was clearly far from used to it.

Jaskier had noticed as much during their travels. Geralt tended to repress his emotions more often than not, sometimes even going so far as to hide behind the tale of witchers’ alleged inability to feel emotions. A load of horseshit if one asked him. As if Geralt didn’t have feelings. The oaf just didn’t know what to make of them most of the time.

The whole thing only served to support his notion that Geralt was full of internalized self-loathing on most days. Just thinking back on how long the fool had tried to hide the effects those potions had on him, refusing to come back to camp out of fear of being labelled a monster, caused Jaskier’s heart to lurch painfully. He yearned to show Geralt that it wasn’t true; that he deserved to be cherished, to be treated with love and respect instead of the cold mistrust he so unjustly had to face. 

In the end, he supposed it was one of many survival techniques that had been drilled into the witchers. Given the harsh reality of their lives it did make sense for them not to get too attached, but that didn’t mean that Jaskier approved of it. Far from it. 

So when he was finally able to use his hands again – ‘only for small things’, at Geralt’s insistence – he started to think of ways he could return the sentiment; to give Geralt as much as he’d given him.

He pointedly ignored the miniscule fact that this was indeed one of the dances deeply ingrained into his draconic culture, and focused instead on trying to figure out how he could be of more help in the future.

Geralt had given him trust, protection, care…

How could he possibly offer those to a witcher in his human form?

He’d always trusted Geralt. Blindly, even. From the moment Geralt had argued for him to be freed and spared when they had both been bound by Filavandrel’s elves, the trust had been established. But the rest?

Protection wouldn’t be hard to offer in his true form. He’d dwarf most of Geralt’s enemies, would easily be able to take them out with his sharp teeth and crooked claws, not to mention the molten inferno unleashed from his lungs. But as a human? Much harder… much harder, indeed.

He’d have to figure something out. Now that his hands were healed, though, his options were at least no longer limited.

His palms had actually healed much faster than either of them had anticipated. The blisters had come and gone within the span of a few days, and Jaskier had the nagging feeling that it might have something to do with his draconic heritage. He _did_ possess accelerated healing in his true form, but he’d never noticed the presence of said particular trait in his human skin.

He was grateful for it. At least a part of him was. The other part would surely miss being hand-fed and doted on by Geralt of Rivia.

Healed hands, however, meant that he was finally _, fucking finally_ , allowed to wash himself after a full week of living in his own filth. Gods, how he’d hated it. He’d almost reached the point where he’d asked Geralt for help, but he’d been reluctant to go that far, uncertain whether there would be any coming back from that. The little barrier he’d so carefully constructed to keep his feelings at bay would surely crumble if he gave in any further than he already had.

He was trying so hard to stop himself from falling for the man. He’d recognized the signs, of course he had. It wasn’t exactly his first time falling for someone, nor was the attraction a novel development when it came to Geralt. Recognizing those pesky, lingering sentiments was one thing, but admitting them? He’d rather not. It would do neither of them any good. Instincts or not, nothing good would come out of allowing his infatuation to fester any further than it already had.

So in the end, he’d stayed strong. He’d wrinkled his nose at his own smell, and had tried to keep his whining to a minimum. After all, Geralt was already going out of his way to help him.

He could sense the guilt still gnawing at the witcher, so it was to both of their relief when after five long days Geralt took a look at his hands and deemed them healed enough to be exposed to water. Briefly, he added with a stern look on his face.

Jaskier cheered loudly. He’d hardly ever been so excited for a bath in his lifetime. Geralt rolled his eyes; of course the brute did, and grunted something about finally being able to move on from this way back town. 

Truth be told, Jaskier wouldn’t mind that either. They had outstayed their welcome a day or two ago, and were both itching to move on, but first, he would relish in a good soak.

It was then, when he was finally seated in the steaming tub, muscles lax and mind wandering that he realized what he could offer his witcher.

He could learn about the potions… the concoctions and decoctions… oh, and the salves and the herbs. He could try to use their time spent apart, however brief the interlude was, to seek out the knowledge of those proficient in the craft. He could head for the next healer if the town had one, and could learn how to best help Geralt if - or rather when - he ended up getting wounded again. Jaskier had been on the Path long enough to know that the likelihood of that happening was more or less inevitable.

Naturally, he’d accumulated his own fair share of knowledge over the years, some of which he was certain hardly any healer knew of. Treating a witcher wasn’t exactly a common occurrence these days, with so few of them left. Yet there were still vast areas he had no expertise in. And while witchers differed from normal humans, so did he. It wouldn’t hurt to learn more, would it? It could come in handy one day, and if it would make him more useful, if he’d be able to help Geralt even a little, wasn’t it worth the shot?

Yes, he could do that.

_He would._

Oh, and then there were the baths. He knew Geralt liked them. Scalding hot, just as Jaskier did. So, he could pay for those, would make sure that they had enough coin that Geralt could indulge in a steaming tub after a hard-fought contract. He’d take care of him then, wash his hair, massage the tension out of those broad shoulders… that was if Geralt let him.

Grooming, he realized with a shudder. That’s what his instincts urged him to do.

Jaskier blinked, and for a moment he all but stared at the smooth surface of the bathwater, lost for words.

He didn’t know what to make of the revelation, yet the more he thought of it… the longer he dwelled on the idea… the more he realized that he _wanted_ to do that. He wanted to be the person Geralt turned to when in need. He wanted to be the person Geralt allowed himself to be vulnerable with. And most importantly, he wanted to be the person that took care of him.

Those thoughts were dangerous, though, and the farther he spun them, the deeper the inevitable fall would be.

He sighed.

Although, now that the idea had taken root, it seemed unlikely that he’d be able to stop himself from trying to follow through. The water around him rippled as he let his head fall back against the edge of the tub.

Grooming… Shit.

He was in way deeper than he’d thought. He let out another sigh. 

Well… while he was at it, he might as well make sure that whatever protection the witcher donned was in pristine condition as well. He’d keep on singing Geralt’s praises of course, spinning tales of the mighty white wolf and his glorious deeds. It was what he did best, what he enjoyed most.

He‘d show his care in small ways… would try his hardest to protect his witcher from festering wounds and needless ailments, from angered glares and pointed pitchforks. It wouldn’t be the same as outright clawing at Geralt’s enemies in his true form, but it was the best he could offer.

It was a solid plan. One Jaskier intended to put into motion once they finally left this quaint village. He would take care of his… his friend. Yes, Geralt was his friend, his best friend. And that’s what friends were for, right? Caring for one another. He just needed to keep reminding himself of that, no matter how vehemently his instincts protested.

They left the following morning at dawn. And for once Jaskier was just as excited to leave the town behind as Geralt was. His fingers felt better than ever and it only took a few more days before he was happily strumming his lute again. Oh, how he’d missed her.

They quickly fell back into their old rhythm. It was comfortable, but Jaskier still half expected Geralt to bring up parting ways again at the next crossroads. Yet much to his surprise the witcher did no such thing. Apparently, he had earned the esteemed status of being a Geralt-approved travel companion.

Hear, hear.

Jaskier smiled, and quickly hurried after Roach, a jolly tune on his lips as he moved to catch up to his brooding wolf.

****

A few weeks later, they managed to stumble upon another contract in Northern Redania. They had barely stepped foot into Drakenborg (Jaskier couldn’t help but chuckle at the name) before Geralt was already ushered towards the Alderman’s home. Apparently, the town was struggling with a bit of a monster infestation only a witcher could take care of. The pay was fair too, a luxury they didn’t often encounter, so Geralt was quick to accept.

Jaskier, on the other hand, was to remain at the inn. Now, normally, he would have argued against such a preposterous proposition, but given their most recent encounter as well as his fumble with the bombs, he decided that for once it was best to dutifully oblige.

The weather had turned into a cold downpour, and the joyous welcome of his bardic abilities by the locals helped sway his decision in favour of staying in the warm, dry inn. Plus, he didn’t fancy another one of his doublets getting ruined. He hadn’t been able to salvage the burnt bits of his last one, and those fabrics weren’t exactly cheap. It was for those reasons that he waved Geralt off when a dubious glance was thrown his way.

He did wish him good fortune though, before dashing off through the rain towards the tavern at the other side of the road. At least this way they were both able to make some coin, and it had been a while since he’d indulged in drink and company. Any distractions from those pesky feelings budding inside of him were more than welcome.

It was on the third night, when Jaskier was busy entertaining the inn for a change that Geralt finally returned from his task. Silver strands were plastered to his head, his armour soaked with rain and mud as he entered the inn and stalked towards the counter.

Geralt’s entrance might have disrupted a lesser bard, but Jaskier kept on merrily singing his tune. It was a joyous ditty - one fitting of the victorious return of his companion. He hopped from one table to the next, a smile etched onto his face at the poor sight the witcher made. Geralt looked like a drowned rat, utterly bedraggled from the pouring rain and gods knew what else.

He was alright, though, in one piece. There was no limping or any deep gashes Jaskier could spy from a distance, and that was all the reassurance his fluttering heart needed.

He finished his song with a flourish, bowed and collected his coin, before walking over to the counter where Geralt had busied himself with an ale.

“At last, the white wolf returns,” he declared dramatically, earning himself an unimpressed grunt from Geralt. He grinned. “And he seems to be in dire need of a bath. Dhalia, would you be a darling and arrange for water to be brought up to our room?”

Dhalia, their lovely barmaid, chuckled at his theatrics, but nodded and headed off towards the backroom to inform her husband of the task.

With that taken care of Jaskier let his eyes trail over Geralt’s form once more, but even up close he couldn’t spot any visible damage. 

“Now, my dear witcher, it’s been three long days… did you miss my delightful presence?”

Geralt rolled his eyes, but the slight quirk of his lips betrayed him.

“As much as I would a rash, bard.”

“Aha! So you _did_ think of me then?” Jaskier teased, mirth heavy in his voice.

Geralt took a long gulp of his ale and turned to look at him, a retort ready on his lips, but before he could continue their banter Dhalia had returned.

“That’ll be two crowns for you. I assumed you’d prefer the water now,” Dhalia said with a side-glance at Geralt’s soaked appearance. “It’ll be up shortly.”

“Lovely! Thank you so much, my dear.” Jaskier clapped his hands together and turned to hand her the coin before Geralt could reach for his own pouch.

Geralt grunted his thanks as well, but Dhalia, bless her, simply smiled at the gruff man.

After finishing off the rest of his ale, Geralt got up and headed for the stairs. Jaskier followed close behind, lute on his back. His eyes traced the trail of droplets Geralt left in his wake, his lips quirking up at the sound of the delicate pitter-patter that followed the hulk of a man.

Upon entering the room, Jaskier immediately strode over to his supplies, pondering over which of his newly acquired oils would work best with one another while simultaneously not being too intrusive on Geralt’s sensitive nose. Geralt surely wouldn’t appreciate his bath smelling like one of those dreadfully overpowering perfumes some of the noblewomen at court were prone to wear. Occasionally, Jaskier had wondered whether humans had any sense of smell at all, given the atrocities they tended to douse themselves in.

Within the next few minutes that tub had been filled with steaming hot water, courtesy of Dhalia’s stout husband. Jaskier had busied himself with his oils in the meantime, taking a few of them out before putting others back with a little shake of his head. His tongue flicked out as he contemplated his final choice. Yes, those would do.

Something wet hit the ground with a loud splat, and Jaskier turned to see what Geralt was up to. He’d been ready to ask… but the sight that greeted him caused the words to be stuck in his throat.

Geralt had taken off his armour and was now standing shirtless in the middle of the room, his wet chemise lying in a pitiful heap on the floor. And fuck, if that broad, muscled back wasn’t doing things to him… not to mention how those wet pants hugged Geralt’s ass exquisitely.

“You go first.” Geralt gestured to the tub. “The water will get muddy once I’ve gone in.”

Well, shit.

Geralt was being considerate. And here Jaskier had hoped that his feelings would wither away after a good tumble or two, but staring at the man in front of him, it seemed like they had only festered.

Bollocks.

He gulped and tried to make his tone as light as possible. 

“Why, thank you, Geralt. I appreciate the gesture, but I did enjoy the luxury of a bath a mere fortnight ago, so this is all yours, my friend. Oh, but wait…” Grabbing the two vials he’d settled on, he strode over to the bath and let a few droplets of each fall into the water. “There we go, all set. Go on.”

Geralt scowled at having his water tempered with, but took a step closer and inhaled deeply, nostrils flaring. The frown melted away at once when the soft, soothing notes of lavender and blackberry started rising from the steam. He let out a soft hum, pleased with Jaskier’s choice and started undoing his pants.

Oh gods. 

Torn between watching and averting his gaze, he fidgeted on the spot, his tongue flicking out to lick his lips. How had he earned such glorious torment?

He regretted not having spent the extra coin on separate rooms, but Geralt had insisted that the job might take a few days and so they had settled on one room with two beds. He wasn’t sure whether to applaud or curse the idea now.

It wasn’t his first time seeing bits of Geralt’s marvellous body – he’d patched him up often enough during the last few years to have caught a glimpse or two. But this… this was different. It was more personal… more intimate.

Turning around to give Geralt some semblance of privacy, he told himself that it was only one night. One night of sweet torture. He could manage that.

The splashing to his left indicated that Geralt had settled in the tub, so Jaskier grabbed his lute to keep his fingers busy. They itched to wash the mud from Geralt’s silver hair, to weave and brush through the fine strands until the silken texture fell smoothly over Geralt’s shoulders once more… but he wasn’t sure whether that would be a prudent decision given his current state of mind.

Instead, he tried to distract himself with composing.

It worked, albeit haphazardly.

Geralt didn’t object. He was relaxing in the tub, not minding Jaskier’s presence at all, and Jaskier had to remind himself to focus on his music instead of what that in itself _meant_. 

If he’d thought, however, that Geralt naked in a bath would be the only temptation the night had in store for him, then he was sorely mistaken. Apparently, Geralt had managed to strain a muscle on his rear, so it was only courtly of him to offer to rub some oil into the tender area, wasn’t it?

He hadn’t expected Geralt to _actually say yes_.

Jaskier blinked.

Well, fuck.

Okay then.

Regaining his composure, he strode over to his bag to retrieve the chamomile oil. He could hear splashing as well as the sound of Geralt towelling himself off, but Jaskier still had to remind himself to breathe when the sight of Geralt’s bare ass splayed out on the bed greeted him moments later. 

Swallowing thickly, he sat down next to him and slowly started spreading the oil onto Geralt’s skin. He tried to be methodical with his touches… but if he lingered a bit longer than necessary… well, who could blame him? When would he ever get a chance like this again? And what a sight it was, the firm muscle glistening in the dim light, the flesh slippery from the oil, bouncing right back when he pressed into it.

Jaskier bit his lips. Why had he offered this again? It felt like he was digging his own grave at this point. 

Geralt let out a soft hum, and gods he sounded so utterly content. Jaskier really needed to calm his treacherous mind lest he’d get hard right then and there. He swiftly finished the little impromptu massage and retreated back to his own bed.

Some might argue that getting his hands on Geralt of Rivia was far from what a torturous night entailed, but Jaskier wasn’t sure he fully agreed as he willed his cock to stay put.

Getting rest proved to be a rather challenging affair after that. He tossed and turned, trying to rid himself of the excess energy, but it was only once he’d already given up hope that he was finally able to find some sleep.

It was early in the morning, too early for Jaskier’s liking, when the sun mercilessly forced him out of his bed. Geralt had already readied their supplies, had tacked up Roach and was waiting in the inn with two bowls of food by the time Jaskier drowsily found his way downstairs.

He handed him the bowl and Jaskier took it gratefully, knowing full well that all he would be eating during the next few days was roasted hare or deer if Geralt managed to catch one.

They set off soon after that, Geralt on Roach and Jaskier by their side. The fresh morning air helped to wake him up a bit as it usually took him an hour or two before he deemed himself ready to face the world. Geralt on the other hand preferred to rise with the sun. _How_ , Jaskier couldn’t fathom.

He shook his head and looked up at the darkened sky. The sun had vanished behind a wall of clouds looming to the east, leaving little to no warmth behind. Jaskier frowned. They promised nothing good, but at least the rain had ceased.

Their path brought them north, towards Vertborg, though Jaskier wished they had gone south. Evading the cold would have been much preferred to heading further north, but the Alderman had mentioned Vertborg might have some work for Geralt, so they had turned north anyway. 

It was during the second day that the cold was truly starting to get to him. He tried to distract himself from the icy winds with his singing; strumming his lute in a feeble attempt to keep his hands warm, but it was only doing so much for him. The shivers had started to settle in once dusk had fallen and Jaskier had to reprimand himself for not having bought a cloak when he’d had the chance to.

He should’ve known better. But he’d wanted those oils, and he had to restock their supplies...

He could deal with a bit of cold. He was used to worse. The winters north of Kaedwen entailed far icier temperatures, and he was bloody red dragon for fuck’s sake. He could deal with this.

Yet thinking of his true form only made him _yearn_ to take it on. His hide would protect him from the brunt of the cold whilst his inner fire kept him warm. He could share his body heat with Geralt, though he doubted that the witcher needed it. They tended to run warmer than normal humans, another mutation forced upon them, but Jaskier would still curl up with him.

If they found a cave he could easily heat up the stone walls, or he could let his flames dance over the ground, so that they could curl up on top, surrounded by blazing heat. Gods, how he wished he could do any of that right now.

Instead he was trying to set up camp with trembling fingers. He rolled out their bedrolls as close to the campfire as he dared, and laid the blankets out on top. This way they could hopefully warm up by the time they needed them.

Dinner was a quiet affair. Both he and Geralt ate the hare the witcher had caught in relative silence. Jaskier was too cold and too tired to strike up conversation and Geralt didn’t seem to mind the silence. Unsurprising, really. 

Soon after he decided that he’d rather try and sleep through the cold than shiver all night long. He crawled into his bedroll, tucking the warm blanket in around his body to keep the frigid temperature at bay. The blanket was doing a piss-poor job at that, though, and Jaskier was starting to feel utterly miserable. He was shivering again, his teeth chattering loudly as he curled up into a ball to prevent any further loss of warmth from his limbs.

“You’re being loud enough to scare off a ghoul,” Geralt grumbled from his right, but Jaskier was too cold to reply.

He pressed his lips together to try and stop his chattering teeth. The sound was muffled now, but he was still freezing.

Geralt let out a deep sigh.

Jaskier could hear him get up, but he didn’t want to move to see what he was doing. Any movement meant that the cold could seep in further and he’d rather avoid that right now.

All of a sudden a blanket was thrown on top of him.

Jaskier blinked.

“Hmm, might as well have this too,” Geralt said and then a heavy weight landed on top of him as well. It was warm, so, so warm. Jaskier let out a soft, pleased sigh, but his frozen brain needed a moment to catch up with what had just happened.

Geralt had draped his cloak over him. His blanket _and_ his cloak.

Jaskier shivered, but this time it wasn’t merely due to the cold. He could feel his instincts rising to the surface, purring at the gesture, crooning at Geralt sharing his _nest_ with him.

It wasn’t what would commonly be considered a nest, far from a proper dragon hoard of course, but Jaskier knew that Geralt didn’t really have one. He was always on the move, always on the Path, hunting with no real place to settle down. Witchers didn’t settle down. His belongings were all he had. A nest in its own way and now he was sharing it with Jaskier.

Jaskier’s heart fluttered.

He felt overwhelmed by the gesture, barely able to think straight. He’d never felt his instincts so strongly. They were tugging at him so fervently, so fiercely that he needed to reciprocate. That he needed to show Geralt, he needed, he needed…

“G-G-Geralt,” he managed through chattering teeth. “C-c-come, h-h-ere.”

Geralt simply stared at him from where he was propped up against a tree, one eyebrow raised questioningly.

Jaskier huffed and tried again, more firmly this time. “C-come _here_.”

Finally Geralt moved.

Jaskier lifted the blankets, a clear invitation to share his nest and for a brief moment he feared that Geralt would just walk back to that damned tree, but then Geralt settled down next to him. He was careful not to touch at first, to leave as much distance between the two of them as the blankets allowed, but Jaskier’s instincts were having none of that. He snuggled closer, threw the cloak over both of them and let out a soft hum at the warmth emanating from Geralt’s chest.

Fuck, he was so warm.

Jaskier nuzzled into Geralt’s collarbone, still shivering but utterly content with his new position. He wiggled his frozen limbs in between Geralt’s legs to get even closer and let out a happy sigh. Bliss, this was pure bliss. His toes curled in his boots when Geralt threw his arm around Jaskier’s waist to pull him closer, an exasperated huff accompanying the gesture. Yet to Jaskier it sounded almost fond.

He fell asleep like that, curled around Geralt’s body, like he would have been if he were in his true form, wings carefully blanketing them both.

Waking up the next morning, Jaskier felt warm. A strong arm was still wrapped around his middle and he could hear the chirping of birds in the nearby treetops, signalling the arrival of a new day. The cold was gone, chased away by the warm body pressed against his and it took his sleep addled mind a moment to grasp what had happened the night before.

Oh gods.

His heart stuttered when he realized that they had basically completed another draconic courting ritual. And not just any of them. _They had shared a nest_. And his instincts fucking purred at the thought.

He fidgeted and half expected Geralt to pull away once he realized that Jaskier was awake, but instead he got a low, rumbled, “Warm, now?”

“Mmmh, just cosy,” he drawled and shamelessly snuggled back into Geralt’s body, allowing himself to revel in the warmth for one more moment. Geralt huffed but let him do as he pleased.

Surprisingly enough it wasn’t awkward after that. Instead it felt natural to share a room more often, saving coin by cosying up in one bed. It did things to Jaskier’s poor heart, though. Realistically he knew that it didn’t mean anything. Geralt wasn’t even aware that he was a dragon - much less that any of what he had done could be misconstrued as showing an intent of courtship.

But that was the crucial word, wasn’t it? Misconstrued. That was what Jaskier’s instincts had been doing; he was misconstruing Geralt’s actions. Yes, Geralt cared for him, but they were sharing a bed out of convenience, nothing more. And yet, despite his best effort at trying to reason with himself, his feelings had festered, no doubt spurred on by those pesky instincts. 

So Jaskier ended up doing what he did best - using his silver tongue to flirt his way into as many beds as he could. He just had to fall for someone else. He didn’t care whether it was a noblewoman, a stable boy, a courtesan or an innkeeper. As long as the short dalliances could take his mind off the one man he couldn’t have, he’d take it.

The only problem with his ‘mingling’ was the unwanted repercussions it sometimes entailed.

“Did you _have_ to stick your cock where it didn’t belong?!” Geralt shouted as they hurried out of the village they had been staying at.

“It’s not my fault she didn’t tell me she was married!”

“Was the ring not evidence enough for you?”

“She’d taken it off!”

Geralt huffed, more than irked but he kept on ushering Roach forward.

In Geralt’s defence, it wasn’t the first time they had been chased out of a town by a cuckolded husband (or wife). It had happened more frequently now that Jaskier was indulging in said distractions, but they worked less and less as of late. And the more often he stuck his cock in the wrong pantry, as Geralt liked to call it, the more trouble ensued.

He glanced up at the irritated witcher and twiddled with the letter he’d carefully tucked away into the inner pocket of his doublet. Perhaps… perhaps it was time he put some distance between them. There would be no overcoming his feelings if he kept on travelling with Geralt. It just wasn’t working. A few months apart might do them good. Just a few…

They had only asked him to teach for two months. He could go back. It was perhaps the more prudent decision to return to Oxenfurt.

He could always find Geralt afterwards. It would be late spring by then, much easier to travel around the continent than now. Less huddling for warmth too…

He’d miss him, but Geralt would be alright. He always was.

Glancing up at his white wolf, Jaskier made his decision. His heart felt heavy, but this was for the best. For both of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Am I going to shamelessly throw all the tropes I adore for this pairing in here? Maaaaaybe :D As always, I'd be thrilled to hear your comments and thoughts down below 💗

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments are greatly appreciated 💗 
> 
> You can find me on [Tumblr](https://choulatte.tumblr.com/)| [Twitter](https://twitter.com/chou_latte)
> 
> [Fic link on Tumblr if you fancy sharing 💗 ](https://choulatte.tumblr.com/post/620167976201699328/forged-in-fire-chapter-5)


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